


footprints in the snow

by hyruling



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe, Amnesia, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dimension Travel, Fix-It, M/M, Sonia Kaspbrak's A+ Parenting, Sort Of, Soulmates, Time Loop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:48:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 62,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24515671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hyruling/pseuds/hyruling
Summary: Eddie meets comedian and rising star Richie Tozier at a comedy club, and his life is promptly turned upside down. His Twitter followers jump from 80 to 80,000 overnight, he's being photographed in the subway, and the dreams that have plagued him his entire life are becoming increasingly specific and haunting. Richie feels strangely like the home he's long forgotten, and falling into friendship with him is the easiest thing he's ever done. But the closer they get, the clearer it becomes that Richie is hiding something.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 420
Kudos: 782
Collections: Richie/Eddie Bigbang 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> its reddie big bang time everyone!
> 
> i had a blast writing this fic - i got to play with some themes that i've been itching to write for this fandom, and having to finish it in advance was a fun challenge to my normal way of writing and posting! really hope you enjoy :)
> 
> i had a VERY hard time writing the summary for this fic because there are some elements to it i don't want to spoil. i'm also purposely not adding certain tags until we progress some more for the same reason, but no archive warnings will ever apply to this fic and i'll post cws for chapters as needed, though there aren't too many. 
> 
> there's 1.5 explicit scenes later in the fic - if you're uncomfortable with that and would like to know what sections to skip, hit me up on [twitter](https://twitter.com/edskaspbraking) or [tumblr](https://hyruling.tumblr.com/). one thing i will spoil: eddie and stan both live, however fair warning, the other losers don't show up until quite a bit later. 
> 
> updates will happen every 3-4 days, and i'll be uploading 2-3 chapters at a time so that we meet the end of july deadline. special thanks to kat for reading over sections of this and holding my hand, ily <3 and of course, huge shoutout to my amazing artist sarah - lookout for the links to their beautiful art at the end once it's up!

_“Someone has to leave first. This is a very old story.  
There is no other version of this story.” _

_-Richard Siken_

* * *

Eddie dreams of water. 

He’s floating, suspended among the deep blue, the pressure weighing down in a way that’s almost pleasant. There’s an ache in his lungs, screaming for him to take a breath, but he doesn’t. He floats, and he waits, for what he has no idea. Somewhere above him there are people waiting, waving at him. He knows them, down to the marrow of his bones, he knows them, but he can’t name them, and they can’t help. They just wave, watching as he sinks deeper and deeper. 

He’s had this dream for as long as he can remember. It’s accompanied him through his entire life, right alongside his peanut allergy and anxiety, like some kind of shitty security blanket - a childhood keepsake he can’t pack up and donate to goodwill, or burn in a cleansing ritual. 

His eyes blur, lungs burning now and chokes, sinks deeper, voices calling to him from the abyss. 

_Do you remember, Eddie?_

_Don’t be afraid, Eddie. We’re going to help you._

_Do you remember us? Wake up, Eddie._

_Wake up, Eddie-bear._

_Wake up..._

He wakes with a muted gasping sound, the same way he always wakes from this dream. He falls asleep again within seconds, and slowly the details fade away, sinking to the deep like a diving sea turtle. 

**↣↢**

It’s a frigid Friday night in the city, and Eddie is standing alone in a crowded comedy club. Well, not completely alone; he’s surrounded by drunk idiots. Worse, drunk _Richie Tozier_ fans, a whole other brand of idiot that deserve their own category. He glares at the text from his coworker telling him she might have to bail because of her son’s projectile vomit or whatever, and hopes she can feel the full effect of his disdain through the screen. 

Another person bumps into him, the third one in five minutes. Eddie mutters angrily to himself and glares pointedly over his shoulder, but the person is already out of sight. It’s smoky and loud and humid as fuck despite the temperature outside, and his fucking feet hurt. Thirty-three is too goddamn old for this.

“I’m too old for this shit,” he grumbles out loud to no one, thanks to his traitorous ‘friend’.

He doesn’t know why he even agreed to this, or better yet, why he’s _still_ _here_. Sure, the tickets were free; Beth had won them in a raffle at their joke of a holiday party. And _sure,_ he’d agreed to go when he’d been in a good mood, and drunk enough to forget that his germaphobia and generalized anxiety was a thing. He still could have changed his mind. He could have put up more of a fight. They aren’t even _good_ tickets. They’re general admission, aka standing room only, to see Richie _fucking_ Tozier.

He could leave. He _should_ leave. He doesn’t even like Richie’s standup. After seeing his small role in the latest shitty Hangover movie, a nagging curiosity led to Eddie watching every one of his Netflix specials. And a few SNL appearances. And maybe a late night interview or two. And he decided after all that, that despite his oddly calming voice and charming persona, Trashmouth Tozier’s comedy is lowbrow horseshit targeted towards neckbearded shitstains in middle America, and definitely not worth the hassle of this joke of a liveshow.

So yeah, he should really just call it a night. It’s not like he’d be losing anything.

The problem is, he’s already wedged in a really good spot in the crowd. Close to the stage, close to the middle, with a little breathing room in front of him. The swarm of people he’d have to wade through is ten deep at least, and the idea of touching all those people to fight his way out makes him shudder. No, he’s better off staying put. Also, he gets two free drinks out of this deal and has so far only cashed in on one.

He’s also lived in New York City for the better part of ten years and has never actually seen anyone famous up close. Which must be why his heart beats just a tiny bit faster when someone announces Richie will be on in fifteen, right after his opener.

Eddie’s phone vibrates in his pocket. He opens yet another text from Beth.

- _I’m sooooooo sorry eddie!! Ollie’s thrown up TWICE since he got home, otherwise you know I’d be there!!!_

Eddie smiles, shoulders relaxing a little, and types out a response.

**-It’s fine Beth, stop apologizing. Kids come first, or whatever. :) Keep the germs to yourself, see you Monday.**

She sends back a thumbs up and vomiting emoji, and Eddie smiles again before pocketing his phone. The lights dim just as he puts it away, and the crowd cheers politely for Richie’s opener.

She’s good. Her name is Anna something, and as it turns out, she’s much funnier than Richie. Eddie finds himself laughing out loud at most of her jokes, and claps along enthusiastically with the crowd when she wraps up.

“Thank you, thank you!” she says to the crowd fifteen minutes later, waving and blowing kisses. “Thanks so much! Save some for Richie though! He’ll literally die without applause, and I don’t want to have to call the paramedics again.”

That earns a final lasting laugh as she bows her way off stage. Eddie watches her walk off, and for some stupid reason feels his breath catch when he sees Richie in the flesh, smiling huge and bright as he greets her in the wings. He whispers something to her when they hug, kissing her cheek when they separate. Something tugs in Eddie’s chest to see it. 

Richie steps out on stage a minute later to enormous whooping and applause from the crowd. And it’s fucking bizarre, seeing this person in the flesh less than ten feet away. Someone he’s watched in more than one two-hour Netflix special, someone who’s acted alongside like, _real_ actors, for a _real_ blockbuster movie. Someone who’s name he’s googled on more than one occasion for reasons that still aren’t totally clear to him. He’s close enough that Eddie can see the thin sheen of sweat on his forehead from the stage lights, the way his hands shake ever so slightly when he waves at the crowd. He’s wearing a hideous patterned shirt that looks like it came from the clearance rack at a thrift shop, and the stage lights reflect off his thick glasses, making his eyes look white and pupil-less. 

“Hey, thanks everyone, thank you for indulging me,” Richie greets, drawling in that lazy trademark delivery of his. Eddie kind of envies his casual confidence. “Uh, Anna’s right, I _will_ die without constant validation so thanks, looks like I’ll live to bullshit my way through another day.”

The crowd laughs; Richie relaxes, and dives right into his routine.

And it’s… fine, Eddie decides. Richie gets a few big laughs, from Eddie as well as the rest of the crowd, and the rest is all the usual crude and unimaginative shit he’s sure Richie could probably recite in his sleep. His diehards laugh at everything that comes out of his mouth, but the majority of the set is just the usual Trashmouth Tozier droll that they’ve all heard some variation of before.

After about forty minutes, Richie reaches a break in the routine where he picks on someone in the audience. Eddie’s been kind of zoning out this late into the act, so his heart skips in his chest when he refocuses his gaze and realizes Richie is staring right at him.

“Yeah, you, purple button up,” Richie is saying, pointing at Eddie. His cheeks burn as heads turn in his direction. Richie is grinning wolfishly at him. “You’re adorable, man. What’s your name?”

Eddie can feel himself glaring, but he can’t make himself stop. “Eddie,” he bites out, loud enough for Richie to hear him.

“Eddie. Where you from, Eds my man?”

His traitorous heart skips a beat in his chest. “ _Eddie_.”

Richie holds his hands up in a conciliatory gesture. “Yikes, okay, Eddie,” he says with a laugh. It makes him furious for some reason. “Where you from?”

“Maine.”

“No shit, small world! Me too!”

Eddie says nothing. He knew Richie was from Maine from his wiki page, but there’s no fucking way he’s admitting that right now.

Richie laughs again after an awkward silence in which Eddie absolutely refuses to engage with him. He glances at his feet before peering back up at Eddie. “Alright, well you’re clearly not in the mood, I’ll go fuck myself.”

He scans the crowd and lands on a guy five feet to Eddie’s right, and starts asking him the same questions. Eddie takes a sip from the dregs of his vodka soda, blushing hard into the glass and feeling weirdly bereft without Richie’s attention. It was just cool to have a celebrity acknowledge his existence, he reasons with himself. Even if just for a few minutes.

Richie finishes up his set about twenty minutes later. He can’t be sure, between the lighting and Richie’s thick glasses, but he’d almost swear Richie shoots furtive glances in Eddie’s direction every few minutes throughout the rest of the set. 

“Alright, thank you so much for coming out, seriously, couldn’t do this without you guys,” Richie closes, raising his voice over the applause. “And if this is your first Trashmouth special, just to let you know, it’s tradition that someone buys me booze after a show. I’ll see you out there in ten.” 

He bows and waves, and backs off stage. Eddie rolls his eyes and follows the throng of people heading to the bar, intent on taking advantage of his second free drink and preparing to commandeer the closest barstool, even if it means pushing someone off of one. His feet fucking _hurt_. 

Luckily he doesn’t need to resort to violence. He finds an empty stool at the end of the bar, and orders another vodka soda, handing over his last drink ticket. He checks his phone while he waits, responds to a message from Beth asking how it was. He then opens Twitter and refreshes his feed, only to see a new tweet from fucking Richie Tozier. 

**_@TrashmouthTozier_** ** _✔️_** _Just finished a shitty set at Gotham Comedy Club in NYC. Got iced HARD by an audience member who definitely thinks I suck. Gonna drink until I can pretend my hotel doesn’t have bedbugs & my career is still thriving._

Eddie huffs out a laugh, and likes the tweet without really thinking about it. He scrolls a little more, and looks up when a loud commotion breaks out at the other end of the bar. 

Richie is there, ugly button up replaced with a plain black t-shirt, making good on his promise to collect his free drink and mingle with the crowd. Eddie watches him shake hands and take pictures with a few people, slowly making his way over to Eddie’s end. He looks up after posing with a large group of fans, and searches along the bar. His eyes land on Eddie, and a wide grin splits his face when he spots him. 

Eddie blushes and looks away, picking up his drink that the bartender finally dropped off to him. Richie moves a little faster through the flock of people after that, and before he knows what to do about it, Richie is approaching him. 

“Well, well,” Richie greets, leaning an elbow against the bar, effectively caging Eddie between him and the back wall. “Eddie, Eddie, Eddie. The one that got away.” 

Eddie looks coolly back, desperately wishing he could wipe his sweaty palms on his jeans in a suave way. “How exactly did I get away? I’m still here,” Eddie points out. 

“Yeah, but you’re the only person who’s _ever_ gotten out of getting heckled at one of my shows,” Richie explains. “I’m not sure what it is. It’s either because you’re so goddamn cute, _or_ because you looked half a second from jumping onstage and slitting my throat, I can’t decide. Maybe both.” 

“Definitely the second one,” Eddie says with a pointedly withering look. Richie laughs, loud and genuine, and it makes Eddie’s stomach flutter stupidly. He takes a sip of his drink to hide his nerves.

“Oh, Eds. What good times we’ve had already,” Richie says when he’s done laughing. “You wanna be the lucky fan that gets to buy me a drink?” 

“No fucking way,” Eddie snaps, then bites his tongue. He doesn’t usually start swearing at people he’s just met. Which — is a lie, actually. He swears at literal strangers on a daily basis, but he should probably try to control himself in the presence of… a comedian? Christ, celebrity worship really is a disease. 

Richie doesn’t seem offended in the least. In fact, his eyes shine and he smiles at Eddie like he’s just won the lottery, so Eddie continues, “You’re rich, dude, you should be buying _me_ a drink.” Richie’s eyes glint mischievously, and he quickly corrects himself. “ _Us,_ a drink. Your uh, your fans.” 

“So you _are_ a fan? See, I couldn’t tell from the adorable way you were pouting through like, ninety percent of my set. Although you did apparently come to a comedy club alone, which could mean you’re a real fanboy. But you haven’t asked for a picture or a lock of my hair yet, so I kind of doubt that.” 

“I’m only here because I got stood up,” Eddie says before he can stop himself. Richie looks a little taken aback, like he’s on the verge of an apology, so Eddie adds, “By my, uh, coworker. She won free tickets to this at our holiday party, I only agreed after one too many jello shots, so. Here I am.” 

“Okaaay, now it’s all coming together,” Richie says, nodding slowly. “So why’d she ditch you then? Fucking John Mulaney doing a show tonight too?” 

Eddie laughs. Richie leans in eagerly, looking goddamn enamored with himself for making Eddie laugh. Eddie catches a whiff of his cologne this close; he has surprisingly good taste. 

“Sick kid,” Eddie explains. “She actually _likes_ your comedy, she would’ve been here otherwise.” 

“Ouch, Eds, that hurt,” Richie says. Eddie opens his mouth to protest the nickname but Richie talks over him. “I think you _owe_ me a drink for that.” 

“Nope,” Eddie says. He takes a long pull of his drink, staring at Richie over the rim as he does so. Richie shakes his head with a soft smile that makes Eddie’s stomach flip, and flags down the bartender.

“Next round for everyone is on me.” He winks at Eddie, then turns back to the bartender. “And get me a Jack and coke, and another of whatever cutie here is drinking.” 

“ _Eddie_.” 

“Eddie,” Richie repeats. The bartender returns moments later with their drinks, taking Eddie’s empty glass. Perks of being a celebrity. 

“Uh. Thanks,” Eddie says belatedly. 

“Anything for my number one fan,” Richie quips. He raises his glass, and Eddie rolls his eyes and clinks them together, draining half of it while Richie stares at him appraisingly. Eddie’s cheeks burn under the scrutiny. 

“What?” 

“I just— never mind.” 

He flushes and looks at his shoes. Eddie watches him while his gaze is averted. He takes in the thick glasses, the curly hair, wild and unkempt, grown out nearly to his shoulders. Richie looks back up at him from under his lashes, and Eddie’s heart starts pounding against his ribcage.

“Have we ever met?” Eddie asks through the fluttering in his throat, completely unbidden. 

He’s not sure why he asks. He attributed the feeling to Richie being a public figure, someone that Eddie has been tangentially aware of for a good ten years or so and who’s life he’s purposely looked into once or twice. But the feeling has only intensified over the last ten minutes; something about Richie feels absurdly, naggingly familiar.

The warm flush of Richie’s cheeks disappears. He pales right before Eddie’s eyes. “I don’t think so,” Richie answers slowly. Eddie frowns a little, squinting hard at him. 

“You sure? Where in Maine did you grow up?” Eddie asks. 

“I don’t— it’s fucking weird, okay, but I don’t remember,” Richie says quickly. Eddie’s pounding heart picks up the pace, and if he doesn’t chill he’s going to fucking pass out. “I haven’t been back since I left twelve years ago, and it's just… its not something I particularly like to think about, so I think I just blocked out the name of it, or some shit—“

“I— yeah, I get it,” Eddie says, a little dazedly. “I kind of… yeah, same. Can’t even picture what my house looked like.”

“Yeah,” Richie agrees, like he already knew that. Eddie frowns again. “Fuck, man, I—“

“Richie,” a new, urgent voice says to his left. Eddie turns his head and sees a harried looking guy addressing Richie. “Richie, we _need_ to go, you have a flight at five AM.” 

“I’m _good_ , Steve. I can sleep on the plane.” 

“Richie, I’m not fucking doing this again. We’ve already rescheduled this flight twice. Anna is in the car, we gotta go.” 

Richie sighs. “Jesus, how have I not fired you yet.” 

“Because without me you’d be selling yarn at JoAnn Fabrics.” 

“Hey, I would sell the shit out of yarn,” Richie says heatedly. Eddie snorts. Richie looks between them. “Oh, right. Eddie, this is Steve, my babysitter.”

“ _Manager._ ”

“Steve, this is Eddie Spaghetti, the president of my fan club.” 

“Eddie _Kaspbrak_ ,” Eddie corrects, shaking Steve’s hand. “And I’ve never even heard of Richie Tozier until tonight.” 

He purposely mispronounces Richie’s last name; Richie smiles so hard he’s practically glowing.

“Wish that were me,” Steve cracks. Richie scoffs, pretending to look hurt. Eddie smirks, and Steve focuses his attention back on Richie. “Richie. _Two_ minutes. I’m not fucking kidding. You better be backstage, or I’m quitting to work for Amy Schumer.” 

Steve spins and stalks away without another word. 

“He’s bluffing,” Richie tells Eddie. “He threatens to leave me for Amy like, at least twice a week.” 

There’s a pregnant pause in which Richie watches Eddie finish his drink; he seems to be debating with himself on what to say to end this weird celebrity/regular person encounter. 

Richie clears his throat, takes a sip of his drink, and if Eddie didn’t know better he’d swear his hands were shaking. “Hey, uh… would it be like, super fucking weird to ask for your number?” 

Eddie pales, heartbeat now thudding in his ears, and Richie must notice because he hastens to add, “Not— not like that. I mean. You’re fucking adorable, as I now realize I’ve said several times, but I just like. I don’t know. I like you, man, and I don’t meet that many people that are like, cool, you know? And— and down to earth. All the people I talk to have like, at least three houses, and fucking jet skis for each of their kids and their fucking _dogs_.” 

He’s babbling, and it’s endearing as fuck to see Richie Tozier flustered. Eddie bites his cheeks to keep from grinning. Richie continues, “And I just feel like I fucking I _know_ you, you know, and it already seems like we have a lot of shit in common, so that’s all I mean man, I swear I’m not trying to—“

“Richie,” Eddie cuts him off. Richie’s mouth closes with a click. “It’s fine, you fucking freak.” 

Richie releases a breath and beams at Eddie. Eddie smiles in return, and Richie fumbles in his pocket to pull out his phone. He’s just unlocked it when Steve appears at Richie’s elbow, angry scowl on his face. 

“Richie. We’re going to the car. Now.”

“ _Two_ seconds, Steve—“

“ _No._ Let’s go.”

He grabs Richie’s arm and starts pulling him away. Richie struggles and looks desperately at Eddie, who just laughs. 

“You know what, I follow you on Twitter. You know my name, I’m sure you can figure it out.” 

“Eds, I have like two million followers,” Richie whines, stumbling as he fights Steve. 

“ _Eddie_ , and nice humble brag, dick,” Eddie teases. Richie beams again, even as Steve tugs hard and drags him away from the bar by his elbow. 

“I’ll find you!” Richie calls dramatically as he’s hauled away. “I’ll find you Eds!” 

The entire bar is watching the exchange. Eddie keeps his eyes fixed on Richie until he disappears backstage, giving him a final wave just before the door shuts behind him. 

**↣↢**

Eddie wakes up late the next morning, blinking groggily at the ceiling, head throbbing dully from the alcohol and the remnants of an intense dream. He can’t seem to hold onto the details of it, but it was vivid, and the first time in years he didn’t dream of drowning. 

It takes a few minutes for the dream to slip away completely and the night before to come back to him, and he laughs out loud to himself as he recalls what has to be the weirdest fucking night of his life. It also explains the weird feeling that Richie was in his dream. 

He remembers Richie’s promise after a few minutes, and shakes his head at the absurdity of it all. As if _Richie Tozier,_ comedian/actor in the prime of his career, would actually spend another second thinking about Eddie, let alone track him down on Twitter with his ‘two million followers’. 

Eddie waits, and studiously does _not_ look at his phone. 

He lasts about forty-three seconds before reaching over and scooping up his phone, yanking the charger out when it gets tangled on the edge of the nightstand. His heart starts racing when he sees he has a seemingly endless number of notifications from Twitter. 

**_@TrashmouthTozier_** ** _✔️_** _followed you.  
_ ** _@TrashmouthTozier_** ** _✔️_** ** _: @eddie-kaspbrak_** _hahaha :)  
_ ** _@tra$hmouth_stan_** and 10,000 others liked a tweet you were mentioned in.  
 _@_ ** _tra$hmouth_stan_** _and 9,335 others followed you.  
_ ** _@TrashmouthTozier_** ** _✔️_** has sent you a message:

_Found you ;)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you follow me on tumblr, you may recognize the majority of this chapter from an old prompt i did back in october or november. i edited and reworked it as the intro for this fic. :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fyi i forgot to mention: myra is in this fic, however she and eddie are not together. cw for some very mild, blink and you miss it internalized homophobia - though really it’s more that eddie just doesn’t yet want to confront that possibility in himself, more than it is that he’s ashamed.

Beth’s kind face is the picture of repentance when Eddie shuffles into work on Monday morning, Eddie’s usual Starbucks order extended in one of her freshly manicured hands. 

“Morning sunshine,” she chirps, and Eddie snorts as he takes the conciliatory caffeine. 

“Morning Beth,” he says. She follows him into his cubicle, where he diligently ignores the stack of folders waiting for him. Eight to eight-thirty AM is for coffee and contemplating existence, and Eddie sticks to that schedule rigidly. 

“So? Was it really that bad?” she asks hesitantly, dark eyes full of remorse. Her red hair is coiffed up in it’s usual neat bun, adorned with chopsticks that Eddie blinks hard at for some reason before answering. 

“There’s not enough Starbucks in the world to make up for putting me through a ‘Trashmouth Tozier’ set by myself.” 

“Oh, Eddie, don’t be a dick!” she exclaims, making him laugh as he takes a sip of his coffee. She perches on the edge of his desk. “You know I felt bad.”

“So did I, having to listen to him try and stumble his way through a joke for an hour and a half.”

“Shut up, it was free,” Beth says with an eye roll. “What else did you get up to this weekend? Did you see Myra?” 

Right. He should have known she’d ask, when she’s the one that set them up in the first place. 

Here’s the sad truth. Eddie is thirty-three years old as of November 18th, and he’s the last of his single friends. Pathetically, most of his friends are coworkers, and the only one that still tries to drag him out of his ‘hermit hole of an apartment’ (her words) every now and then is Beth. He doesn’t remember any of his friends from high school. The few college friends he kept up with got married and moved away, and every year on Eddie’s birthday they all say how much they miss him, that they should take a trip together soon, or meet up in New York for the holidays, but it never happens. He knows it’s normal for people to grow apart, to find new friends, or fall into their new family life and just be too busy for him. And mostly he’s fine with it, but he’d be lying if he said it didn’t get to him sometimes. On the rare nights he goes out and third or fifth-wheels, he often comes home with a nagging voice that whispers maybe it’s  _ his  _ fault. That maybe there’s a reason he only has one actual friend in the entire city, that no one seems to be willing to make more than a half hearted effort for him. Most nights he can shut the voice up by just going the fuck to sleep, but sometimes it lingers, and he goes to bed feeling like his ribs are splintered apart, like his chest is gaping and raw. 

“Uh, no. She called yesterday, but I was at the gym.”

“Did you call back?” Beth presses. 

“I— well, I was going to, but—“

Here’s another sad truth: apart from the occasional crippling loneliness that creeps it’s way into his chest some nights, Eddie doesn’t actually  _ care _ that he’s single. He can’t remember his upbringing, but he can remember that the moment he started college, he was bound and determined to figure out independence, driven by some inner voice that frantically screamed  _ get away get away get away never come back  _ the moment he passed the state line. While his friends and roommates were going home on weekends to do laundry and visit their parents, Eddie was figuring out the local laundromat, and teaching himself to cook in his tiny dorm half-kitchen. He’s had a few girlfriends here and there, but never a relationship that lasted. Inevitably they all fall apart when they find out exactly how neurotic Eddie is, usually around month four or five. Oddly enough, it never really bothered him when they’d break it off. Mostly he’d feel a sense of relief that he’s never looked too hard at, afraid of what it might say about him, that it might shine light on the other creeping self realization that he’s managed to stave off for his entire adult life. But really, it’s not like it matters anyway. He’s never really wanted anyone, not since—

“Eddie! Come on, you've only gone out  _ once _ , you should give her another chance,” Beth chastises, arms crossed. 

Eddie cringes. “ _ Hard _ pass. She spent the entire dinner asking me invasive questions about my diet and like, my entire medical history. And not just, ‘have you ever broken a bone’ shit, like, she asked if my family had a history of stroke or heart disease.”

“She’s a nurse! She was just, curious, it’s—“

“It’s  _ weird _ ,” Eddie insists. He thinks back to it, and how hot and itchy it made him feel to be questioned like that. He half expected her to call him Eddie-bear, and even the  _ thought _ of that pet name made his skin crawl. 

“You should give her another chance,” Beth says in  _ that _ voice. The one that says ‘I love you, but you’re too picky and you’re going to die alone despite my best efforts’ without actually saying it. “I know she comes off kind of intense, but I promise she’s really sweet. Ollie loves her, and you know how much he hates going to the doctor. He’ll only go if he knows she’s there.” 

“I’ll think about it,” he says, mostly to placate her. She smiles anyway. 

“Good. Dinner this weekend?”

“I— sure, sounds good.” 

Beth squeezes his shoulder and slides out of his cubicle towards hers a few down. 

Eddie takes a sip of his coffee and pulls out his phone. He hasn’t checked it since last night; the notifications from Twitter are still rolling in, as the ‘Trash Heads’, as Richie had horrifyingly described his fans, continue to find Richie’s innocuous tweet. He’s avoided his mentions, per Richie’s recommendation, but still toggles over to his private messages when he sees the little 1 in the corner. 

**@TrashmouthTozier** ** _✔️_** _has sent you a message:_

-ugh, yeah.  
-that’s a dick thing to say actually. my mondays are prob not nearly as stressful as most peoples. usually im just really fucking hungover.  
-thanks for indulging me this weekend. nice to connect with a normie for once :)

Eddie scoffs, types out a response without pausing to consult his better judgment. 

**@eddie_kaspbrak**

-Normie??? Fuck off dude

He snorts, scrolling up through their conversation from the weekend. It’s all pretty dull, messages consisting of Richie telling him about his upcoming shows, and asking Eddie about what he does. The usual boring bullshit when getting to know someone. What’s unusual is the disconnect between their lives. Richie’s messages are full of flights and venues and a brief mention of a red carpet event he has coming up; Eddie’s are all grocery shopping and errands and his current favorite Netflix series ( _ The Crown _ , though he’s not proud of it). He’s literally boring himself, he has no idea how Richie hasn’t already written him off as some weird guy he met in a bar and washed his hands of the whole thing. 

Richie replies almost instantly, before Eddie’s had a chance to close the app and get to work. 

**@TrashmouthTozier** **_✔️_ **

-u know i kid eddie  
-ur the only non-celebrity i talk to u know. besides mom and went

Eddie rolls his eyes. 

**@eddie_kaspbrak**

-Went?  
-We’ve only been talking 2 days. Thats not exactly impressive. 

**@TrashmouthTozier** **_✔️_ **

-short for wentworth, aka dear old dad, aka my middle name. i call him went cause he hates it.   
-they live in chicago. fucked outta maine when i did, once my older sisters and i all graduated.  
-and 2 days IS impressive for me. i have the attention span of a goldfish.   
-whats ur name again?

Eddie laughs, sipping his coffee. The combination of caffeine and decent banter is weirdly energizing. He’s just about to close the app and get started on the mountain accumulating on his desk when another message comes through. 

**@TrashmouthTozier** **_✔️_ **

-not to make things weirder or sound like one of those tinder creeps, but do u wanna move this to text?  
-it’d just be way less annoying than opening Twitter 200 times a day. my batterys not happy with me.  
-no pressure. just tell me to fuck off if you want. heres my #

Eddie stares at the number, heart rate steadily increasing. Why the  _ fuck _ didn’t he request decaf?

His thumb hovers over the number that his phone has thoughtfully underlined for him, as though it’s not pulsing like a fucking beacon by itself. Eventually he just decides to tap it, because he knows it’s what’s going to happen sooner or later, and remembers too late what happens when you tap a new phone number on an iPhone. 

“Hello?”

Richie’s voice crackles through the speaker, just the slightest bit hesitant. Eddie swears, loud enough for Richie to hear apparently, because he laughs. 

“Is that you Eddie?” 

Eddie clears his throat, puts the phone to his ear. “Uh, yeah. Hi. I meant to just add your number and my phone just, um. Yeah.”

“Eloquent,” Richie comments. Eddie glares before remembering Richie can’t see him. “And I thought  _ I _ was the eager beaver here.”

“It was an accident. And I have to actually work, like a regular human adult, so I’m hanging up.”

“Wait! So… does this mean I can text you?” 

Eddie absolutely does not read into the hopefulness in his tone. “I— yeah. Sure.” 

“Nice! I have the day off, so get ready for a classic, incoherent Richard Tozier stream of consciousness.”

“Jesus Christ. I have to go, goodbye.” 

He hangs up before Richie can say anything more distracting, and commits himself not to think about Richie for at least the next four hours. 

  
**↣↢**

When Eddie checks his phone during his lunch break, he has sixty-nine messages from Richie. 

“Goddammit Tozier,” Eddie huffs as he shuffles his way through the cafeteria in their building. He closes them for now, plucks his prepackaged lunch from the refrigerator and sits down at his usual table, waiting for Beth. 

She’s nowhere to be found, so Eddie picks up his phone again to read Richie’s messages. 

_ -hi eds :)  
_ _ -oh, right. you “don’t like eds”. hi eddie.  
_ _ -how’s work?  
_ _ -lots of risks to analyze today?  
_ _ -did u risk analyze ur decision to give me ur number? bc u probably regret it now i bet.   
_ _ -anyway, i have some set edits to look at, so i’m gonna go.   
_ _ -okay that took like 10 minutes. super easy when u don’t write ur own jokes.   
_ _ -shit i probably shouldn’t have said that.  _

Eddie snorts. The messages go on and on, topics changing wildly as Richie essentially talks to himself. He tells Eddie about his breakfast, and how he has to fly to Ohio in a few hours. He also sends a meme from Twitter, then reminds Eddie not to check his Twitter, with gory examples from his own Twitter experience, screenshots and all. Eddie shakes his head and types: 

- **Do you actually need me for any of this?**

Three dots appear almost instantly, and Eddie grins just as Beth plops down across from him. 

“What’s so funny?” Beth asks. 

“I don’t think you’d believe me if I told you,” Eddie answers, just as his phone vibrates with Richie’s answer. 

- _ eddie!!! ur back :))  
_ _ -wait. i really hope this is actually u. i never checked, aside from recognizing ur beautiful lethal voice  
_ _ -if ur a serial killer, legally u have to tell me _

“What are you talking about?” 

Eddie sighs. “It’s just someone I met at the comedy club.” 

“Oh?” Beth says, leaning closer, eyes glittering. 

“Calm down, it’s— a guy. We just… I don’t know, started talking, he’s— he’s cool.”

“Oh,” Beth says again in a slightly different tone, and there’s a gleam of something in her eyes that Eddie does not want to look too hard at. 

“It’s nothing, anyway. How’s Ollie? Better?”

It works. Beth gets distracted with a story about Ollie’s projectile vomit that ends up ruining Eddie’s appetite. She grins at him sheepishly at the end of it, noticing how he’s stopped eating, and launches into another story about her husband that’s far tamer. In the end, though, Eddie ends up bringing his lunch back to his desk with him and eating a few hours later when his stomach settles. 

Richie texts him relentlessly even after Eddie ignores him again in favor of focusing on work. His phone buzzes constantly in his pocket during their weekly staff meeting. He finally unlocks it at five when he’s walking out, and catches up on the messages on his commute home. 

- **You’re so fucking lucky I have unlimited messaging or you’d be getting my phone bill  
** **-You stopped at 69 messages on purpose this morning, didn’t you?**

- _ he speaks!   
_ _ -you already know me so well :’ _ _ )  
_ _ -also jeez eddie, ur such a dedicated little worker bee. who actually works for eight straight hours without slacking off on their phone?? _

- **People who need a raise so they can fix their hot water heater. Not that you’d know about that.**

- _ hey, mr. high horse. i lived off ramen for ten solid years when i was trying to make it big.   
_ _ -don’t u make like, six figures dude?  
_ _ -fuck. that was rude. sorry. _

The question throws him a little. 

- **Um, no? I’m pretty low on the totem pole, dude. And I live in New York City, it’s not exactly cheap.**

- _ right. sorry. again. please don’t block me.  
_ _ -how’s the subway?  _

Right. The subway. Eddie’s least favorite part of any day. Usually he’s tense and itchy during his commute, feeling the germs crawl over him until he can get home and scrub his skin raw. Now, though, Richie’s distracted him enough that he’s almost to his stop and hasn’t itched once. 

- **Fine, actually. No one’s tried to spit on me yet anyway. You in Ohio yet?**

They keep it up as Eddie walks the final block to his building. Eddie makes a quick dinner, texting Richie as he goes, eating one handed so he can read Richie’s stream of messages. It turns out Richie actually is funny, and more than once Eddie finds himself actually laughing softly to himself. He doesn’t dare tell Richie that though. 

Finally, around eight Richie breaks off their conversation. 

- _ sorry eddie spaghetti, got to go choke on stage now. wish me luck. _

_ - _ **Don’t think luck will help you, Rich.**

The nickname just slips out, and he doesn’t even realize he’s done it until Richie takes an unusually long time to respond. 

- _ if u can call me rich, i can call u eds _

- **No.  
** - **Go do your show, Trashmouth.**

- _ i’ll be thinking of you heckling me the whole time _

Eddie snorts, and stands up to clean the kitchen. When he’s done he takes a shower, much shorter than usual thanks to his piece of shit hot water heater, and crawls in bed to warm up. 

He plugs in his phone, which actually is far more drained than usual, and finally gives in to his curiosity. He opens Twitter and toggles over to his notifications and begins to scroll. 

**@richieswhore:** **_@TrashmouthTozier @eddie_kaspbrak_ ** lol who is this guy!! he has like 2 tweets on his timeline, both to complain abt delta airlines  
**@richtoziersss:** **_@TrashmouthTozier @eddie_kaspbrak_ ** omg this flirting… eddie is cuteee  
**@trashm0uth:** **_@TrashmouthTozier @eddie_kaspbrak @richtoziersss_ ** flirting?? toziers gay??? since when?  
**@richtoziersss:** **_@TrashmouthTozier @eddie_kaspbrak @trashm0uth_ ** oh honey. read the news

Eddie’s cheeks burn, and he closes the app and opens Safari. A quick google search of Richie’s name brings up an article from a week earlier. Eddie opens it without even checking the source. 

_ Richie “Trashmouth” Tozier Tells All! _

_ In a whirlwind of an interview, Richie Tozier gives an up close and personal view into his life, which up until now has been largely a mystery. The ‘Hangover Part IV’ star— _

Eddie scrolls down until the words “love life” catch his eye, and reads the transcript. 

_ I: So Richie, a lot of your fans are very... well. Outspoken about their attraction to you.  _

**_R: [laughs] Yeah, I have no idea how that— I mean, you’ve seen me, you’re looking right at me, I’m like,_ ** **_okay_ ** **_looking, and that’s only at my best — after my hair and makeup team have been working on me for a good four hours. These freaks — and I say that lovingly — just have really weird f*cking taste._ **

_ I: Oh come on don’t be modest. You’re a handsome, funny guy! Is there a significant other in your life that has any opinion on this subset of fans?  _

**_R: ‘Subset’, I like that. Really accentuates the scarcity of the human population that feel this way about me. [Both laugh] But uh, no. No— no significant other._ **

_ I: Bummer. I bet she’d have some hilarious things to say about your devoted ‘Trash Heads’.  _

_ Richie pauses for a long minute, looking like he’s contemplating something. He doesn’t make eye contact, and when he looks up there’s a self deprecating sort of smile on his face.  _

**_R: Well, there isn’t anyone. But if there ever is, I’ll be sure to give him your information to give you the scoop._ **

_ I: Him? Oh, you mean—? _

**_R: [deep breath] Yep. There it is. I’m gay. And that’s— I don’t know why I always build it up to be such a big deal when it’s_ ** — **_I mean nothing has changed really, I’m still gonna tell dick jokes, just with slight alterations. But yeah, there you go. I can feel my Twitter follower count dropping, ce la vie._ **

Eddie stops reading. His face is on fucking fire, and he doesn’t exactly know why. Richie being gay doesn’t change anything, doesn’t even come as a huge surprise despite only knowing him for a few days. 

And okay, total honesty, maybe he actually  _ does _ know why it feels like a big deal, but he’s not opening that box right now. He opens Twitter again, because he’s nothing if not a glutton for punishment, and opens his notifications again. 

**@tmouth2356:** **_@TrashmouthTozier @eddie_kaspbrak_ ** ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)  
**@jessustozier:** **_@TrashmouthTozier @eddie_kaspbrak_ ** uhhh i think i might have found this guy yall  😳  
**@jessustozier:** **_@TrashmouthTozier @eddie_kaspbrak_ ** DM me for details 👀

Eddie’s heart pounds, and he scrolls through the responses for another ten minutes. The person who claims to have figured out who he is never outs his information anywhere in the thread, nor on their own profile, but responds individually with cryptic responses to DM them for information. 

He swallows with a click and googles his own name — thankfully all he finds is the usual. His name listed as an employee at his firm, along with links to social media accounts, most of which don’t actually belong to him. But he’s not stupid, and he knows that any decent hacker could find him and any of his information in a heartbeat. 

He dials Richie’s number without really thinking about it. It goes straight to voicemail, of course, because Richie is in the middle of a show. His heart is racing, and he feels on the verge of a full blown panic attack, so he climbs out of bed and throws on the first sweater he can find, some old thing with the fading initials ‘DHS’ across the chest. 

He’s walked his block six times and has finally managed to get his breathing under control when Richie finally calls him back. 

He picks up on the second ring. “Hello?”    
  
“Eddie, hey, I uh— you called?” Richie asks hesitantly. His voice is a little rough from his show.

“Yeah. Um. So I know you told me not to, but I looked at Twitter,” Eddie begins. Right on cue, Richie sighs. “And— and it’s freaked me the fuck out, Richie.” 

“Dude, I know I’m so sorry,” Richie says. “Just ignore them, they’re fucking weirdos. They’re so desperate to figure out if I’m dating someone, I’m sorry if they’re already like, photoshopping your LinkedIn picture next to me or something—”   
  
“No, that’s not— I mean yeah that’s weird, but that’s not what I’m talking about,” Eddie interrupts. “Someone said they figured out who I am, and I know I’m new to this but I’m kind of— am I gonna get my identity stolen?”

There’s a long pause. Eddie can hear soft music and dishes clanking on Richie’s end before he bursts into laughter. 

“Richie. I’m serious, dude.” 

Richie keeps laughing, and Eddie’s eyebrows pinch together the longer he laughs. “Shit, sorry, Eds, I’m sorry—”    
  
“ _ Eddie.”  _

“I’m so sorry, I just, I should have known.”    
  
“Known what?” Eddie asks irritably. 

“That you’d be more worried about identity fraud than being linked to a recently out gay comedian. One who’s fans have  _ already _ photoshopped his face onto not one, not two, but seventeen gay pornstar’s bodies. And counting. Sorry to say that your face will probably be the next to be digitally altered onto a body with a ten inch di—” 

“Shut  _ up _ . Of course I’m more worried about identity theft jackass, that has  _ actual _ real life consequences.”    
  
“And being linked to me doesn’t?” Richie asks quietly. 

“No,” Eddie says immediately. Richie releases a quiet breath. “ _ No _ , Richie, what kind of person do you think I am? I don’t— it doesn’t matter to me if you’re gay. Or if— if people think we’re— that doesn’t matter. What  _ matters _ is my bank account being emptied by some fuckwad who’s stolen my social security number.” 

“Okay,” Richie says softly. “In a backwards way, that was really sweet of you to say, so thanks.”    


“You’re welcome. Do I need a lawyer?” 

Richie laughs. “No, I don’t think you’re at that stage yet. I’ll give you the number for my LifeLock guy.” 

“You have a LifeLock  _ guy? _ ” 

“Perks of fame, Spaghetti. I’ll send it over once I get out of this bar, and tell him to treat you real nice.”    
  
Eddie rolls his eyes. “Right. Well, uh. I should. It’s fucking freezing, I’m gonna go back to my apartment.” 

“Okay Eds. Sweet dreams.” 

“Don’t call me—” 

Richie hangs up before he can finish the sentence. 

By the time Eddie gets back to his apartment, his fingers and nose are numb, but he has a new text from Richie with contact details from his “LifeLock guy”. He shoots off a quick email as he’s climbing back into bed. He opens Twitter, sees eighty new notifications, closes it, and deletes the app.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you're confused about the timeline, ie what year it is, that's intentional :)


	3. Chapter 3

The hospital is dark, freezing. The biting smell of antiseptic cleanser makes his nose twitch. 

He can’t open his eyes, but he’s spent enough of his life in hospital rooms to recognize it by sound and smell alone. The beeping of his heart monitor is piercing in the silence. The pulse oximeter is pinching his finger a little too hard, and he twitches his hand, trying to adjust it. 

“Holy shit, he just—”

“Yeah, I saw it too!” 

The voices are fuzzy, slow and garbled, a dreamlike haze. And come to think of it, he must be dreaming. He hasn’t been to a hospital since his mother’s last fake heart attack, and he’s pretty sure one of those voices belonged to Richie.

He also doesn’t remember having a pole rammed through his chest recently, which he's pretty sure is what's going on between his ribs right now.

There’s no pain, further proving his dream theory. The voices around him have become too faint to understand, and he wonders if they’re ghosts, waiting to welcome him to the afterlife. 

He hears Richie’s name, but by the time his brain catches onto the thread of the conversation it’s gone, and the voices fade into incomprehensible whispering again. His heart rate monitor beeps faster, faster, until there’s the thundering of footsteps, and familiar voices yelling his name, and the agony of his chest being ripped apart, and he screams—

_Do you remember, Eddie?_

Eddie wakes up with a jolt, drenched in sweat. His scream echoes around his small bedroom, and he has a brief moment to worry about a noise complaint from his neighbor before the pounding of his heart brings him back to reality. The dream is already fading, but he would swear he could still taste iron as his eyes droop closed again. 

**↣↢**

The rest of the week is super fucking weird. 

Eddie starts getting looks from people all over the city. On the subway, at the store, and even at work where, apart from Beth, most people typically pretend he doesn’t exist. 

Richie sends him a link to a Buzzfeed article about their Twitter exchange that speculates heavily on the nature of their relationship, along with a long paragraph apologizing for exposing him to the world like this. Eddie replies that he doesn’t give a shit about that, but could Richie please do something to prevent them from digging up the photos of him with braces at age twenty-five. Richie’s reply is a laughing emoji and two chilling words: ‘ _no promises’._

On Friday, just as he’s packing up to leave for the day, Beth barges into his cubicle and thrusts her phone in his face. 

“Is this true? Are you dating Trashmouth Tozier? And did I _really_ find out from fucking Buzzfeed first?” 

Her eyes are blazing, matching her fiery hair, and Eddie can’t help but laugh. 

“Uh,” he says stupidly as she just stares expectantly. “I’m not _dating_ him. But we uh, we did meet that night, and have been kind of talking—”  
  
“Christ Eddie, how the _fuck_ did that slip your mind? Are you kidding?” 

“Sorry, I didn’t realize I’d feature on fucking Buzzfeed—“

“That’s not the point! You’ve been yucking it up with _Richie Tozier_ for a week now and haven’t mentioned it _once!_ I thought we were friends!”

“Okay, sorry, I didn’t think— it didn’t seem like it was actually, you know, going anywhere but he’s like a leech! I can’t get rid of him.” 

“I want to meet him,” Beth demands, nodding her head vigorously. “Yeah. I want to meet him, and I want a picture, and maybe even an autograph.”

“Jesus, please don’t make it weird Beth,” Eddie begs. She shakes her head fiercely, red hair shimmering around her face like fire. 

“Nope. Fuck you. You lied to me, so I get to be embarrassing around your new celebrity best friend.” 

“He’s not my— I didn’t _lie_ , I just—“

“Shut up. I have to go pick up Ollie, but we are not done here. Picture _and_ autograph, got it?”

“We’ll see,” Eddie says with a sigh. It seems to be an acceptable answer, because she twirls on her heel and strides out of his office without so much as a “have a good weekend!” 

Three days after that conversation, Eddie is followed by some creep with a camera who tries to take pictures of him when he thinks Eddie isn’t looking. This leads to a rough shouting incident that culminates in Eddie threatening to call the cops, and the guy backs away with his hands raised, drawing attention from everyone else on the subway car. 

Richie calls him immediately when Eddie texts him about it. 

“Eddie?” 

“Yeah, hi, I’m sort of— I’m still on the subway,” Eddie says as quietly as he can, turning towards the door to ignore the looks from everyone else in the car. 

“Eddie, _shit_ , I’m so sorry. I know you graciously brushed it off the other day but this fucking _sucks_. I never meant to bring you into this shit, really, I’m sorry.” 

He sounds so genuine and torn up about it that Eddie’s hand twitches with an instinct to reach out and comfort him. He clenches his fingers into a fist, nails digging into his palm. 

“Shut up, it’s fine, okay? It’s been a rough day at work anyway. It felt kind of good to lay into someone.” 

“It’s _not_ fucking fine, dude,” Richie insists. “I fucking— I’ve been thinking about it, and it was selfish of me, okay? I wasn’t fucking thinking. I can make a statement, if you want. I’ll tell everyone you’re my accountant or some shit, something boring to get them off your tail, and have my lawyer threaten the paps, he’s done it before, he’s terrifying, it’s incredible—”

“Ri— no, don’t do that,” Eddie says, shooting a quick glance around to see if anyone picked up on his almost name drop. “They’ll see right through that when they google my name anyway. It’s fine. _I’m_ fine.” 

“You’re being too polite. And you’re _not_ a very polite person Eddie. Tell me to fuck off, and I will.” 

There’s a desperation in his voice that Eddie can’t quite parse, and he frowns. 

“Have you been drinking?” Eddie asks suddenly. 

“What? No, I— I mean I’m at a gig, about to go on, so yeah I’m kind of buzzed but— why are you changing the subject?”

“I’m not, but you just... sound weird.” 

The subway finally comes to Eddie’s stop. He throws a quick glare at the paparazzi dick cowering in the corner, daring him to follow him, and steps into the subway station. He isn’t followed. 

“ _You’re_ weird,” Richie throws back miserably. 

Eddie laughs. “Nice comeback. Starting to understand why you don’t write your own jokes.” 

“ _Ouch._ Don’t know why I was ever worried about you. I’m starting to worry more about the paparazzi jags, you’ll insult them into retirement.” 

“You’re right. You don’t need to worry about me, okay? If I ever think it’s too much, I’ll tell you to fuck off, I promise.” 

“Right,” Richie says, voice gone even weirder and distant. “Right well, I should, uh. Steve is now miming slitting my throat, so I should—” 

“Break a leg, Trashmouth,” Eddie says just as he’s reached the door to his apartment. 

“Hey, I’d love to, then I could stop doing this fucking tour. I’m so tired dude.” 

“Okay, I’m hanging up now. Bye, Richie.” 

“Bye Eddie.” 

Eddie hangs up and gets busy heating up leftovers for dinner. He carries them to his couch when it’s ready, intent on picking up where he left off a few nights ago on _The Crown_.

When he opens Netflix, however, he finds himself searching Richie’s name instead. His most recent special pops up, with two smaller icons advertising his older shows hovering next to it. He clicks on it without thinking much about it, and sucks in a breath when Richie’s face appears on his screen, hit again with that weird nostalgia that he can’t explain every time he sees his face. He feels it when Richie calls him too, his voice like a soothing balm, even when he’s annoying the shit out of him. 

Eddie’s memory wasn’t betraying him — Richie’s set is terrible. It’s full of misogynistic frat boy humor that only lands because of his delivery and rapport with the audience. He also has a few voices he brings out occasionally that are well practiced, but overall it’s shit. It’s so at odds with Richie’s actual sense of humor that it makes him seem like an entirely different person altogether. 

By the time the special ends, it’s nearly eleven. He picks up his phone with the intent of texting Richie. Instead, he finds himself tapping the call icon. 

Richie doesn’t pick up for several rings this time, all while Eddie considers hanging up. 

“Eds?”

“ _Eddie,_ ” he corrects automatically, ignoring the swoop in his stomach when Richie barks out a laugh in response. 

“Eddie. Hello again,” Richie greets. Eddie can hear a lot of noise and chatter on his end, and figures he must still be out after his show. “Can’t get enough, huh?”

“Shit, you’re out, huh?” Eddie says, feeling stupid. “I didn’t mean to— sorry, I’ll go.”

“No, it’s cool, hang on,” Richie says quickly. There’s shuffling, and Richie murmuring something Eddie can’t make out to people around him, and Eddie suddenly feels painfully self conscious. Richie is a literal celebrity, who very obviously has better things to do, more interesting people to talk to, and here Eddie is calling him in the middle of the night like a fucking _dweeb_ . _And_ they’ve already talked once today. Jesus Christ he’s pathetic.

“Richie, I’m serious, I’ll go,” Eddie says. “I shouldn’t have called, it’s late, and you’re—“

“I’m outside now, I can hear you better,” Richie says, as if he didn’t hear anything Eddie just said. “Are you okay, Spaghetti? Already changed your mind about telling me to fuck off?” 

“I—“ Eddie stammers, blushing hard. “I don’t— your comedy is shit.” 

There’s a silence that feels deafening in Eddie’s tiny apartment. He‘d _kill_ for a good sinkhole right now. 

“I mean— fuck, that was— I didn’t mean to just blurt that out, fuck, Richie—“

Richie laughs suddenly, loud and sharp in Eddie’s ear, and then keeps laughing while Eddie tries to stutter out an apology. 

“Richie, listen— I didn’t mean— god would you shut the fuck up?” 

Richie just laughs harder, and Eddie can almost picture the way he’s probably hunched over, wiping tears out of his eyes. A clear image in his mind, like he’s seen it before. 

“Oh, fuck, Eds,” Richie says thickly, giggling. “You sure know how to sweet talk em, huh?” 

“Fuck off, I just. Look, what I wanted to say... was that I watched one of your specials tonight.”

“Oooh, you _really_ can’t get enough of the Trashmouth huh? That’s cute, Eddie.”

“Shut _up_. I’m trying to fucking say something.”

“Spill it, Eds.”

“ _Eddie_. Why don’t you write your own material?” 

Richie doesn’t answer. Eddie anxiously twirls a thread from his throw blanket around his finger until the skin turns purple.

“Um…”

“I’m not trying to be an asshole, Richie. I’m just— look, you’re funny, Richie, you know? And don’t get all cocky on me, just fucking listen. You’re _funny_ , when you aren’t even trying to be. But your comedy is so basic and like, gross, and just— why don’t you write your own stuff?”

“I can’t,” Richie answers stiffly. “I— you don’t realize, they have me by the balls, Eddie. I can’t even _tweet_ a joke without getting it approved first. And it’s been even worse since I came out unexpectedly. I’m simply the mouthpiece for the bullshit my bosses want out there.”

“ _Fuck_ _that_. That’s fucked, Richie, you need new representation.”

“I know it is. What are you— what is this?” Richie asks, not unkindly, just genuinely curious. “Why do you care, Eddie? I’ve dragged you into my weird fucking life unwillingly, you should hate me, and we— we _just_ met, you know. Why are you so invested in my shitty career?”

“I’m _not_. I’m invested in— I don’t know,” Eddie answers truthfully. He can’t explain the pull he feels, the strange magnetic draw to Richie. He can’t recall the last time he met someone he wanted to spend an entire week talking to constantly like this, someone who could make him momentarily insane for calling them out of the blue in the middle of the night. 

“You don’t?” 

Richie’s voice is hushed; he sounds somehow both hopeful and disappointed, all at once. 

“No. I’m— sorry. This was so far out of line. I think I unlearned every rule of social etiquette when I met you.”

“Don’t worry your cute little Spaghetti Head,” Richie says, and he rolls his eyes at the new nickname. “It’s just how you are. Invasive and filter-less.” 

“I’m not _invasive_ , I’m just—“

“Protective.” 

Eddie freezes. He feels like he can’t breathe, and he itches to reach for the inhaler he hasn’t seen in years, fingers flexing in midair. 

“I have to go,” Eddie breathes. “I’m… have a good night, Richie.”

“Okay, if you’re— okay,” Richie says slowly. “Um. Night, Eddie.”

“Night Rich.” 

**↣↢**

A week passes in which Eddie doesn’t call Richie at all. 

Richie keeps texting him, but it gets noticeably less frequent compared to the first week. He tells Eddie all about his meetings and rehearsals and rewrites; Eddie tells him about work and texts him when he spots someone suspicious with a camera, but even that starts to die down after a few more days of Richie staying silent on Twitter. 

They text so much that Eddie starts to worry about carpal tunnel. They don’t mention Eddie’s unprompted phone call once, for which he’s thankful. The texts become a little more sporadic into the weekend, when Richie is busy doing bigger shows, and Eddie tries not to think about how disappointed he feels when he checks his phone Sunday afternoon after his workout and finds zero messages from Richie. 

Another week drags by. He focuses on work, and throws in an extra day or two at the gym to distract himself after that. Beth invites him to dinner Thursday night, and normally he politely declines when she asks him over to her place during the week, but this time he agrees, eager to stop thinking about Richie fucking Tozier for a few hours. 

Turns out, he should have followed his instincts. 

“Eddie! Great to see you!” Myra greets him when he shows up at Beth and Brad’s apartment. His grip tightens on the bottle of wine he’d picked up on the way. 

“Hi, Myra,” Eddie replies tightly. 

“Come in, you’re gonna freeze out here!” She says, grabbing him by the elbow and tugging him inside. He barely resists the urge to rip his arm out of her grip. 

He shrugs his coat off when he’s in, and Myra takes it from him, frowning when she feels the material. 

“Oh Eddie, this isn’t nearly thick enough! It’s January, you should have something much warmer, something with fur or wool.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind. Beth in the kitchen?” Eddie grits out. Myra nods, short curls bobbing around her shoulders. 

“Yep, just putting the last touches on dinner!”

“Great,” Eddie says, stalking away from her towards the kitchen. 

Beth is dressing the salad, and looks up sheepishly when Eddie announces himself. Luckily, she’s spared Eddie’s ire by her son Oliver barreling into his knees. 

“Eddie! Eddie!” Ollie is squealing, clawing at Eddie’s legs. Eddie picks him up, and ruffles his hair, making him giggle in delight. 

“Hey, kiddo,” Eddie says with a grin. Even after three years of practice with Ollie, he still feels super fucking awkward with kids, but Ollie doesn’t seem to mind. He adores Eddie, clearly oblivious to his discomfort. “You feeling better?”

“Yes,” Ollie answers in his tiny voice. “I only — I only throwed up four times.”

“Four? That’s it?” Eddie asks. “That’s not so bad.”

“Four in one _night_ ,” Beth mumbles darkly. 

“Has he been sick at all this week?” Myra asks, and... right. He’d forgotten she was here. 

He shifts, turning a little so as not to be completely fucking rude and include Myra in the conversation, and immediately regrets it. She’s looking at Eddie holding Ollie with big soft eyes that make him start to sweat. He gently lowers Ollie to the ground and busies himself with opening the wine. 

He tunes out Beth’s response, focusing on anything but Myra and Beth’s little side-eyes when his phone blessedly vibrates in his pocket. Eddie turns around to look at it, and finds a text from Richie. He ignores the fluttery sensation in his stomach and unlocks his phone. 

- _unrelatable complaint incoming:  
_ _-i fucking hate my writers room.  
_ _-if i have to listen to another rewrite of this fuckin 69ing joke im strangling myself with an extension cord  
_ _-there’s literally 4 in the room so everyone can charge their phone. i have options_

Eddie grins. 

- **Good news, I have the solution. Can you guess what it is?** **  
** \- **Do I need to say it?**

Richie starts typing a response, but Eddie is distracted by the arrival of Beth’s husband Bradley. Bradley greets the room, scooping Ollie up into a hug and leaning over to shake Eddie’s hand. 

“Hey Eddie, good to see you man,” Bradley says with a warm smile. Eddie returns it, genuinely happy to see him. He’s not a particularly close friend, not like Beth, but he’s kind and personable and dotes on Beth and Ollie, so Eddie likes him a lot. He and Eddie don’t have much in common, but they have a good time together any time Eddie comes over or joins them on an outing as their permanent third wheel. 

Ollie reaches out for Eddie from Bradley’s arms, and Eddie finds a way out of awkward adult conversation by holding Ollie and talking to him about Spongebob until they start dinner. 

Dinner is okay, surprisingly — it’s easier talking to Myra with a buffer, but she still asks weirdly prying questions that he answers as evasively as he can. She seems to do the same to Bradley and Beth though, so at least he’s not the only one who suffers from her nosiness. He stays for one after dinner drink, making small talk with Bradley while Ollie is put to bed, and then insists he needs to go home before they rope him into playing dominoes or cards. He waits until Myra excuses herself to use the bathroom, then slips out the front door after halted goodbyes to Beth and Bradley. 

Unfortunately, his attempt at sneaking out alone doesn’t go unnoticed, and Myra catches him in the subway. 

“Eddie!” she says, waving and taking the empty seat next to him. She looks a little out of breath, like she’d chased him the whole way here. 

“Oh hey, I didn’t know you lived this way,” Eddie says, gritting his teeth. 

“Yes, I live just a few blocks from you, we talked about that remember? I mentioned we should go out for breakfast sometime, at that cafe near the square?”

His phone buzzes in his hand with another text, probably from Richie. “Oh, right you did, you… oh, you know what, I need to take this, excuse me,” Eddie stammers out, holding his phone out as explanation. He stands and steps a few paces away, dialing Richie’s number without thinking. 

“Eddie,” Richie says happily, and it’s stupid the way he immediately relaxes at the sound of his voice. “Did you call to tell me how excellent my joke was? Just couldn’t hold in the raucous laughter and had to share it with me?”

“I didn’t read it,” Eddie admits. Richie makes a sound, and Eddie can almost hear him pouting through the phone. “Sorry, I— this is a dick thing to do, but I needed to avoid talking to someone, so—“

“So you called me. Wow, way to make a guy feel used.”

“Shut up. You haven’t called me once in the past two weeks.” 

It’s only as he says it that he realizes how bothered he actually is by that. His cheeks burn, but he holds steady, listening hard to Richie’s small intake of breath. 

“Do you want me to call you, Eds?” Richie says softly. 

“No, I want you to call me Eddie,” he retorts, and Richie barks out a laugh. Eddie smiles hard at his shoes. 

“Oh, I knew there was a reason I kept you around,” Richie sighs. “An entire room full of professional comedy writers and no one makes me laugh like you.” 

Eddie’s heart squeezes. He glances over his shoulder for the first time since calling Richie and sees Myra glaring daggers into his back. “Well, obviously that’s a sign that you need to fire them and hire me.” 

“Yeah? Maybe it is. It’d be worth it just to see their faces when I tell them I hired a risk analyst to be my sole ghostwriter.” 

The subway grinds to a halt, and it’s not his stop but he steps off the train anyway with a short wave to Myra, phone pressed tight to his ear as he climbs the steps to the street above. 

“Okay I heard that sigh of relief. Who were you trying to avoid so desperately, Spaghetti?” 

“Don’t call me— No one, it’s not important.”

“Uh, you called me at ten-fifteen on a school night—“

“ _School night_? How old are you?”

“—so it obviously _is_ important.” 

“I — we went on a bad first date, and then she showed up at a friend's house tonight for dinner, it was just. Awkward.” 

It’s silent for a long moment. For a second Eddie thinks they got disconnected, but when he pulls his phone away to check Richie’s name is still there. Eddie waits. He’s passing Rockefeller Center, so he slows down to take a moment to look at the big tree and the skaters down below. 

“Oh,” Richie finally says. He coughs, voice carefully neutral when he continues, “Uh. What’s her name?”

“It’s, um. Myra.”

Richie’s reaction is far more animated this time. There’s a clatter, like Richie dropped his phone, and when he comes back he’s saying, “Eddie, listen _—_ “

“Excuse me?” 

Eddie’s interrupted by a tourist, a man with a gaggle of people huddled nearby that must be his family. Eddie raises an eyebrow to show he’s listening. 

“Sorry to interrupt, do you know where the entrance to the skating rink is?” 

Eddie rolls his eyes, ignoring the slightly offended look. “Fifth Avenue. There are signs everywhere, you can’t miss it.” 

“Right, um. Thanks. Happy Holidays.” 

“Yep,” Eddie mutters, turning fully away from him. “Sorry Rich.” 

“It’s fine,” Richie says, sounding stricken. “Uh, listen, I’m in Chicago right now, but I was thinking of coming up there for the weekend. My sisters and their kids are driving me fucking crazy.” 

Eddie pauses. “But. Christmas is on Monday, don’t you want to spend Christmas Eve at home?” 

“I’d fly back for Christmas Eve night,” Richie explains. “Unless— shit, do you already have plans?”

“No, um. My dad died when I was little, and I don’t really speak to my mom, and I’m an only child, so…” 

“Yeah,” Richie says gently. “I mean. Sorry, Eddie.”

“It’s fine. I’m— you know, used to it.” 

This is one of those horrible moments when Eddie’s loneliness hits him like a punch in the chest, leaving him gasping and hollow. He blinks, and is both surprised and annoyed to find there are tears in his eyes. He swallows and forces the feeling down. 

“I’ll be there Saturday morning. We should hang out, if you can stand being around me longer than twenty minutes this time.”

“Don’t you — I mean, surely you have cooler people to hang out with in New York than me.” 

“Nope.” 

His answer is immediate, and absurdly confident. 

“Okay,” Eddie hears himself saying. “Okay. Saturday.” 

“Good,” Richie says. “And listen, don’t go out of your way shopping for my Christmas present, okay? I’ll just get embarrassed, and I’ll probably start crying, it’ll be a whole thing—”

“Fuck off Tozier.”

“That’s my Eddie.” 

Richie hangs up before Eddie can respond to whatever the fuck that was. Eddie’s hands drop to the railing, and he watches the ice skaters until his hands are numb. 

What the _fuck_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can check out the beautiful artwork for this part [here](https://www.deviantart.com/the-snuffbox/art/Have-we-ever-met-844268351%E2%80%9D%20rel=)
> 
> next update will be friday! :)


	4. Chapter 4

Friday is a blur. Eddie gets approximately nothing done at work, too concerned with trying to figure out what the fuck is going to happen tomorrow to bother with things as trivial as quarterly reports. He’s power walking away from his cubicle and racing out of the door at 4:53, throwing a harried wave over his shoulder at Beth as he goes, worried that he needs to somehow  _ prepare _ for Richie’s visit. 

His nerves are absolutely absurd, he tells himself over and over again. He barely knows Richie, he has no reason to give in to this all consuming need to impress him, just because he’s like, half a celebrity. Richie is choosing to visit Eddie, after all. He’s literally interrupting his holiday plans just to come shoot the shit with him for twenty four hours before heading back home. 

And that’s... not a comforting train of thought. Mostly it just makes him want to throw up. 

He cleans when he gets home. Primarily because it calms him down, but also because he’s not sure if Richie will come by before they go and do… whatever, tomorrow. And fuck, what the  _ fuck _ is he supposed to do with a guest that has seen everything the city has to offer and then some? 

His phone pings just as he finishes dusting the ceiling fans. It’s from Richie, but it’s just information about when he lands, what airport, and that he can Uber from there.

- _ should we just meet up at ur place?  _

The question burns through the screen of his phone. 

- **That depends. We’ve never established that YOU aren’t a serial killer you know.**

- _ eds even if I were I could never kill u  
_ _ -id want u to be my partner in crime. the watson to my holmes _

- **They are the literal opposite of serial killers. I’m not convinced.**

- _ okay, then I promise im not a serial killer. happy?  
_ _ -ill even pinky promise u tomorrow. _

- **Before or after you murder me and ditch my body in the Hudson?**

_ -oh it’d be the east, spagheds. too many bodies in the hudson already.  _

Eddie snorts, and eventually gives Richie his address. The conversation drops after a while, and Eddie goes back to his vigorous cleaning, feeling slightly less frantic. 

**↣↢**

He passes out on his couch sometime after one am, and wakes with a dusting cloth curled in his fist like a security blanket. 

“Goddammit,” he mutters as he sits up, swearing again when he realizes his phone is dead. He plugs it in and puts away the rest of his cleaning supplies. When he’s done, he has enough charge to see that Richie landed ten minutes ago. 

“ _ Shit _ !” he cries, fingers slipping when he tries to open his text messages. 

- _ on the plane! :)   
_ _ -t-minus 2 hours 14 min  
_ _ -oh my god my seat mate just took off his shoes. nvm im getting off this plane while I can  
_ _ -im kidding. ill power through for u eddie spaghetti. see u soon _

_ -landed!   
_ _ -seat mate STILL won’t put his shoes back on. can i have him arrested??  
_ _ -seriously, we’re next to deplane and he’s still fuckin barefoot.   
_ _ -it’s CHRISTMAS. this is UNHOLY.  _

And then, just as Eddie’s about to toss the phone and jump in the shower, another comes through. 

- _ slightly concerned u havent answered. did someone else murder u before I had the chance???  
_ _ -fuck that’s gonna be really hard to argue in court if its true.   
_ _ -just got an uber… let me know if i should flee to canada instead? _

- **Sorry, overslept. I’m here. Jumping in the shower, passcode to the building is 392143 if you get here before I’m done.  
** - **Apartment 1902. I’ll leave the door unlocked, please don’t murder me in the shower.**

- _ no promises.  _

Eddie showers as fast as he can, but his version of a short shower is still at least fifteen minutes. Luckily there’s still no sign of Richie when he gets out, and any notion he’d had of meticulously choosing an outfit goes flying out the window when Richie tells him his ETA is about five minutes. He throws on jeans and a white undershirt for the time being, sweating too much from the shower and from the general rush to even consider putting on anything heavier despite the snow outside. He’s just finished putting on deodorant and hastily brushing his teeth when there’s a knock on his door. 

“Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck,” he chants as he throws his towel in the bathroom. He all but sprints to the front door, throws it open, and then there he is. Richie fucking Tozier standing on his doorstep. 

His first thought is that Richie looks…  _ soft _ . He’s wearing a cozy looking green sweater and jeans under a dark coat. His hair is a little messy, like he’d fallen asleep on the plane and hadn’t bothered to fix it. There’s a duffel bag thrown over one of his broad shoulders, and he’s flashing Eddie a lopsided grin so big and genuine it sort of takes his breath away. 

“Hi,” Eddie says, immediately embarrassed when he hears how breathless he sounds. 

“Hiya Eds,” Richie greets him, smile widening when Eddie scowls. 

“Eddie,” he insists. “I’m not letting you in if you keep calling me that.” 

“Geez, touchy. May I come in please,  _ Edward? _ ”

“Christ,” Eddie swears, rolling his eyes and stepping aside so Richie can come in. 

Richie comes in, trailing remnants of snow on his shoes, and Eddie just barely stops himself from snapping at him. 

“Uh, could you— you’re bringing in snow,” Eddie says, gesturing to Richie’s feet.

“Shit, yeah, sorry,” Richie says, toeing his shoes off to reveal bright red reindeer socks. When he turns back around he holds his pinky out to Eddie, who looks at it blankly.

“What is this?” Eddie deadpans. 

“I’m not a serial killer! Remember? Pinky promise.” 

Eddie looks between his face and his hand several times before sighing and giving in, wrapping his pinky around Richie’s. His fingers are freezing, and it makes his whole body jolt. Richie uses the opportunity to pull Eddie to him, wrapping him in a quick hug wherein Eddie becomes intimately aware of how fucking broad his shoulders are before Richie’s pulling away, cheeks a little pinker than before. 

Eddie snorts, glancing down to avoid looking directly at his bright, disarming smile. “Nice,” he says, nodding at Richie’s obnoxious socks. 

“I know,” Richie agrees with a wide grin. “Christmas gift from my niece Alli. She picked them out and everything.” 

Something lurches in Eddie’s gut as he watches Richie set his duffel precariously on one of the barstools. 

“Richie, are you  _ sure _ you— I mean, you’re not just here because of my sob story are you?” Eddie asks. 

Richie smiles. “Trying to get rid of me already, huh?” 

“No. No, but… it’s the holidays, you should be with your family, not holed up in my shitty apartment with it’s crappy heating.” 

“It’s not shitty,” Richie tells him, looking around appraisingly. “It’s kinda small, but that’s pretty standard for New York. You got a balcony?” 

“I— yeah, through the living room,” Eddie says, gesturing. Richie plods through the area out to the balcony and opens the sliding glass door. 

“Fuck, Richie, you’re gonna let all the heat out,” Eddie snaps without thinking, striding forward and closing the door. He brushes Richie’s arm to do so; his sweater is ridiculously soft. 

“My bad,” Richie says over his shoulder at Eddie. 

Eddie rolls his eyes and steps back. Richie looks around some more, almost like he’s looking for something. He eyes the pictures on Eddie’s mantle, and points at one of him with Ollie. 

“Cute kid.” 

“Yeah, he’s one of my coworkers kids. Oliver. Ollie for short.” 

Richie grins, looking at the picture more closely. “You must be pretty close to have a picture with her kid.” 

Eddie shrugs. “Yeah, she’s… we’re close.” 

“Wait, Beth, right?” Eddie nods. “Yeah, I remember from your texts.” 

There’s an awkward pause. Eddie watches as Richie paces around, seamlessly filling in the empty places in Eddie’s apartment like he’s always belonged there. He meanders around silently, appreciating Eddie’s decor apparently, and Eddie watches, feeling strangely unsettled. 

“Richie, I didn’t um… I didn’t like, plan anything,” he says sheepishly. 

Richie’s eyes are soft when he looks up at him. “That’s fine, Eddie. I wasn’t expecting anything, I just. I don’t know. Wanted to see you again.” 

Eddie flushes, making Richie grin again, and turns towards the kitchen to hide it. “Cool, um. Want a drink or something?” 

“Let’s go out,” Richie suggests. “Yeah, Christmas Eve brunch, it’ll be great.” 

Eddie wrinkles his nose. “It’ll be packed, dude.” 

“Nah, you’re forgetting who you’re with,” Richie says with a wink. “Come on. Let me treat you for letting me come bother you.” 

“Fine… you do owe me for that, I guess,” Eddie says with a grin. Richie returns it. 

“Okay well, put a fucking sweater on, it’s December. Not gonna let you catch the flu on me, Honestly.” 

Eddie shakes his head but does as Richie says. When he emerges from his room, fully clothed, including shoes, Richie is looking intently at a framed picture of him and Beth from his last birthday. 

“Ready?” Eddie asks. Richie turns and nods, and offers his arm to Eddie when he approaches. 

“Lead the way, Eddie darling,” Richie singsongs. Eddie ignores his extended arm and grabs his coat, not waiting for Richie to follow him into the hallway. 

**↣↢**

Brunch, Eddie can admit, is fun. 

Richie and Eddie seamlessly power through the initial awkwardness of Richie’s arrival, and bicker the whole walk over which brunch spot has better ambiance _.  _ They end up at Eddie’s pick, and Richie works his celebrity magic to get them seated right away at a nice semi-private balcony table, complete with those fancy outdoor heaters that Eddie spends half the morning coveting. 

They talk easily through the meal, just as they have since they met, and Eddie is struck again by just how easy it is with Richie, the way it never has been with anyone else. It must show on his face, because Richie looks at him oddly while he sips his post-meal grapefruit mimosa. 

“What’s going on in there, Eds?” Richie asks, poking Eddie in the middle of his forehead. He’s gotten more touchy the more they drink, and it makes Eddie dizzy watching his finger retreat. 

“Don’t call me that,” Eddie says. 

Richie sighs. “What’s going on,  _ Eddie _ ?”

Eddie shrugs and finishes his drink. Their waitress appears with a fresh one almost instantly. 

“I just _ —  _ never mind,” Eddie says. Richie watches him drain half his drink, but Eddie steadily watches the snow drifting behind him. 

“You what? Don’t leave me hanging.” 

“I don’t know... don’t you think this is weird?” 

“You’ll have to be more specific. There’s a lot of weird shit here right now, for example, the dude with the bright green fedora in the corner who’s been staring at you the entire time we’ve been here.” 

“I _ — what?  _ No, that’s not even _ — _ how did you even notice that?” 

Richie shrugs, taking a sip of his mimosa. “I’m  _ observant _ , Eddie.” 

“Yeah, okay, but no,” Eddie says, waving his hand indiscriminately and almost knocking over Richie’s drink. Fuck, he’s had too many of these. “What I was gonna say, is it’s weird how _ —  _ how we  _ are. _ ”

“‘How we are’? Care to elaborate?”

“You know… I just feel like we’ve met before,” Eddie explains in a rush. Richie stills, champagne flute paused halfway to his mouth. “I know you said we haven’t, but neither of us remember our childhood and you’re just so familiar, and this is so… easy.”

“Easy…” Richie repeats slowly.

“Easy for  _ me _ ,” Eddie says. “I don’t… making friends is kind of hard for me, usually.” 

“Never would have guessed that, Eddie baby,” Richie teases, taking a swig of his drink. Eddie narrows his eyes. 

“I’m baring my soul to you here, asshole,” Eddie says, gesturing and nearly knocking over his mimosa. Richie catches it before it spills and lifts it safely back to the table. 

“I know, sorry dude,” Richie says. “I’m uncomfortable with sincerity.”

“Never would have guessed  _ that _ , Richie baby,” Eddie mocks. Richie’s eyes widen in delighted shock. 

“Eds gets off a good one!” Richie crows, drawing the attention of the tables in the vicinity, and Eddie shushes him. 

Even that stupid phrase makes something familiar prod in the back of his head, politely knocking on the door to his conscious thought, but every time he tries to chase it it eludes him, slipping away like a spurned Jehovahs witness. Richie’s smile fades quickly when he notices how Eddie has gone quiet. 

The thread is gone before Eddie can pick at it any more; he mentally shrugs it off and focuses on the matter at hand, which is Richie flagging down their waitress for the check. 

“What do you want to do now?” Richie asks, leaning back and slinging an arm lazily around the back of the empty chair next to him. 

“I don’t know, you’re the guest,” Eddie says uncomfortably. “What do  _ you _ want to do?” 

Richie shrugs. “I’d be fine just kicking back and watching cartoons all day, honestly.” 

“Cartoons? Are you twelve?” 

“Oh, sorry, what would King Eddie from the land of Maturity prefer to watch?” Their waitress brings the check, and Richie hands her a credit card before Eddie can even offer to split it. 

“Dude,” Eddie complains as she walks away.

“You’re letting me crash on your couch, I can get brunch,” Richie says with a wave. 

“I am?” Eddie asks. This is news to him, though the swoop in his stomach indicates that it’s not exactly unwelcome. 

Richie blanches. “Wait, you— was that not? Oh shit, I can get a hotel, hang on a second,” he says, visibly panicking and fumbling for his phone. Eddie almost laughs. 

“No, it’s fine dude, I’m fucking with you,” Eddie says. Richie drops his phone with a sigh of relief. 

“That was mean, Spaghetti.” 

Eddie shrugs. “Worth it to see your eyebrows do that.”

“ _ Mean.  _ And you didn’t answer the question. What would you rather watch?” 

“‘The Hangover Part IV’,” Eddie answers with a smirk. 

“Oh fuck no,” Richie grouses. 

“Yeah, that settles it. We’re watching it.” 

“Like fuck we are,” Richie argues, but Eddie can see the smile playing on his lips. 

“Yep. We are.” 

**↣↢**

“Jesus Christ… why has no one ever told me that’s what I look like on camera?” 

Eddie snorts, nearly inhaling his wine. They’re curled up on Eddie’s couch, sharing one of his big throw blankets, each nursing a glass of wine Eddie had been saving for New Year’s. Richie’s character features more prominently than Eddie (or Richie) remembered, and they’ve spent the entire hour laughing at everything from the dialogue to Richie’s wardrobe. 

“Hate to break it to you, but that’s what you always look like,” Eddie teases. Richie gapes at him dramatically, and he laughs even harder. 

“Wow, way to kick a man when he’s down,” Richie says with a laugh, turning his attention back to the screen. He winces when his character is kicked in the balls by Danny DeVito. “Only good part of that movie was meeting Danny. The man is a legend.” 

“That was the only good thing? So the massive paycheck was only okay?” Eddie asks sarcastically, nudging Richie’s shin with his toe. 

“Okay, second best thing was meeting Danny,” Richie corrects. “Everything else though… man the script was shit.” 

“Yeah, well, the quality kind of diminished after ‘Hangover Part II’,” Eddie says matter of factly. He reaches forward for the wine bottle on the coffee table and refills his and Richie’s glass. “How many times can we watch these same assholes lose their friend?”

“Hey, I was one of the assholes this time, they changed it up!” 

“So now you’re defending it?” Eddie asks with a grin, and Richie flounders. 

“It’s not my  _ proudest  _ work but I still… you know… showed up!” he says, color high on his cheeks and hands raised defensively. Eddie can’t look away. 

“Then what is your proudest work?” Eddie asks, leaning an elbow on the back of the couch to face Richie. 

The movie continues on forgotten behind them. Richie’s gone still again, cagey look on his face. He takes a sip of wine and seems to think about Eddie’s question for a long time. 

“My first standup,” Richie answers finally. “Before I had a ghostwriter. It was shit, but it was actually  _ my _ shit, you know?” 

“Makes sense,” Eddie says. 

“Yeah, but it flopped pretty hard. I got nowhere with it, hence my manager insisting on a ghostwriter.”

“Hmm,” Eddie responds, in too good of a mood to push him tonight. 

“I can hear straight through that ‘hmm’, Spaghetti,” Richie says. “I know what you’re thinking.” 

“I didn’t say anything!” 

“You didn’t have to.” 

“Okay, well fuck me for caring,” Eddie says. “But I wasn’t going to say anything, seriously. You know how I feel, no need to argue about it tonight.” 

Richie doesn’t respond. He sips his wine and watches as something explodes on screen; Eddie’s totally lost the plot by now. 

“I fired my writers,” Richie says quietly a few minutes later, when his character is bleeding and delirious from a head wound that Eddie missed. 

Eddie looks at real Richie, no blood on his face, his hair longer and messier than the Richie on screen, and his chest feels tight. Richie’s waiting for a response, but Eddie’s too busy staring at his temple, as if he’ll start spontaneously bleeding from it like he is on screen, as if he’s seen it before. 

“Eds? You hear me?” Richie asks, smiling nervously. 

“Yeah, I heard, I’m… why?” Eddie says. 

Richie looks away, tracing the pattern of Eddie’s blanket on his thigh. “Guess you inspired me, I don’t know. I realized I was running out of excuses, so I said fuck it.” 

“Shit,” Eddie says in a rush. “Shit, are you okay? I didn’t mean to fuck up your career, Jesus.”

“You didn’t fuck up anything,” Richie assures him. “I’ve still got the rest of my tour, I’ll just be repeating the same jokes they wrote months ago anyway.” 

“Wow, I’m— I’m proud of you, Rich.” 

“Thanks dad,” Richie says, and Eddie rolls his eyes. 

“Seriously, that’s cool. You writing your own stuff?” 

“Starting to,” Richie says, dropping eye contact again. “Mostly just trying to get through the last few shows with some dignity and then I’ll focus more on the writing.” 

“That’s awesome, really,” Eddie says earnestly, squeezing Richie’s shoulder. 

“Yeah, I think it will be,” Richie says, smiling softly at him. They grin at each other for a few moments before Richie nods back at the TV. “My outrageous death scene is coming up, pay attention.” 

They don’t talk much more throughout the rest of the movie, only to sporadically make fun of the script or Richie’s acting. It’s midnight when it finally finishes, and Richie stretches and yawns as the credits roll. 

“I’ll get you a pillow,” Eddie tells him. He snags one from his own bed, along with an extra blanket because of his shitty furnace, and when he comes back into the room Richie is already stretched out on the sofa, feet dangling over the edge. 

“Dude, that looks so uncomfortable,” Eddie says, dropping the pillow and blanket on the arm of the sofa. “You’re like, a foot too tall for this couch.” 

Richie shrugs. “It’s one night. I’ve slept in worse places.” 

“I have a king sized bed, if you— if it’s too uncomfortable,” Eddie blurts, ignoring the way his cheeks immediately burn. 

Richie pauses mid-stretch. It would be funny if Eddie wasn’t trying to melt into the floorboards. 

“Uh… I’m okay, Eds, really,” Richie says eventually. He sits up and arranges the pillow and blanket until he looks moderately comfortable. 

“Okay, well, um. I’m in there, if you need anything,” Eddie says, awkwardly backing towards his bedroom.

“Got it. Sweet dreams Eds,” Richie says, burrowing deeper into his cocoon of blankets. 

“Eddie,” he corrects automatically. Richie doesn’t stir. “Uh. Night Richie.” 

**↣↢**

Eddie dreams of the ocean, but for the first time in years, he’s above water. 

The water is still and calm, smooth as glass. Under the water sea creatures pass peacefully, undisturbed. He dips his feet in, and the water ripples, sunlight reflecting off the waves. 

He watches the water until the sunlight grows harsh, painfully bright — Eddie closes his eyes against the onslaught. When he opens them again the water is polluted red, slick blood clinging to the skin of his feet. It pours from his chest into the water, climbing up his legs at an alarming rate, and he wants to scream but the blood is in his throat too, choking him. 

“What’s happening?” A panicked voice says nearby; Eddie can’t see them, no matter how far across the water he looks. 

“He’s crashing,” another voice answers, clipped and urgent. “You’ll need to leave the room.” 

“I’m not going fucking anywhere,” the first voice spits. It sounds like Richie, but he doesn’t understand the terror laced in it. 

“Sir, you need to leave—” 

“ _ I’m not fucking leaving.  _ Get off me— Eddie, no,  _ Eds—!” _

Eddie wakes with a gasp, drenched in sweat. He yanks the covers off his legs to check for blood, exhaling heavily when he sees clean skin. The dream is fading quickly, but he’d swear that the voice he heard was—

“Eds?” 

He jumps, and Richie startles himself, hovering in Eddie’s doorway. 

“Hey, Richie,” Eddie breathes, hand to his chest over his pounding heart.

“Bad dream?” Richie asks. “You were kind of… not yelling, exactly, but I heard like. Whimpering.” 

“Yeah, uh, sorry,” Eddie says, running a hand through his hair. Richie glances down and then away, and he realizes he’s still got his blankets thrown off his bare legs. He covers them back up and says, “didn’t mean to wake you.” 

“You didn’t,” Richie says. “I had a nightmare too, it’s cool.” 

“Oh,” Eddie says. “You okay?” 

“Yeah, fine.” 

He hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck. Eddie thinks he’s going to back out of the room when he blurts, “Actually, your shitty couch is kind of killing my back, if your offer still stands—?”

“My— oh,” Eddie says, flushing. 

Richie watches him, teetering forward on the balls of his feet before falling back on his heels nervously. 

“Yeah, no—no problem,” Eddie says, gesturing to the other side of the bed. 

Richie nods, says a brief “thanks”, and then he’s crawling into Eddie’s bed before Eddie can even blink. 

“You sure this is okay?” Richie whispers once Eddie has settled back into the pillows. 

“As long as you don’t fucking snore,” Eddie whispers back. 

Richie snorts; there’s still a smile on his face as his eyes fall shut, and Eddie watches him for a long time before his own eyes droop closed. 

Eddie doesn’t dream for the rest of the night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eddie's like: *spends one day with richie* well i guess we're in love and you're just gonna have to sleep in my bed now. idk i have no control over the situation.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so here comes the part of the fic where i have to cw for sonia kaspbrak. it's not gonna be heavy, but obviously there will be talk of and reference to eddie's abuse. dm me if you need more detail before you read <3 also minor cw for vomiting/drunk character. and, can’t believe i’m writing this, zach galifianakis makes a weird appearance in this chapter?? idk if he requires a cw but hes there for just like, a second

- _ so i know you like just dropped me off  
_ _ -but i have a question _

Eddie grins down at his phone, sidestepping a tourist on his way back to his apartment. Their Uber just dropped him back off a few blocks away so he could try and get some last minute gifts at some of the shops near his building. He still hasn’t found anything for his mother; he wonders if he could still get it mailed off today. Maybe Fedex is open Christmas Eve.

- **I’m already dreading this. What is it?**

**-** _ i’m gonna be in nyc for new years   
_ - _ we definitely jinxed ourselves watching hangover. galifianakis or whatever the fuck is having a party and invited me this morning  
_ - _ wanna go? _

Eddie comes to a full stop, barely even reacting when someone rams into his back. He moves to hide under an overhang and stares at the message for a long time. 

- _ your hesitance is concerning  
_ _ -i cannot get through an evening with those self inflated fucks alone  
_ _ -please???  
_ _ -we can leave at 9 if u want and go home and play video games   
_ _ -or like, scrabble if that’s more ur thing, whatever u want  
_ _ -and he promised there wont be paps _

- **I’m not worried about paps, for the last time Richie  
** **-It’s regular social anxiety I’m struggling with right now. Amplified by celebrity presence.**

- _ i promise i won’t leave your side or make you talk to strangers alone _

- **Okay. It’s in writing so it’s binding**

- _ really???  
_ _ -THANK YOU  
_ _ -okay, i have to do family shit until the 31st, i’ll fly in that afternoon _

- **Okay  
** **-Do you want to just stay here again?**

“What the  _ fuck  _ Eddie,” Eddie hisses out loud. No one even glances his way. 

- _ you sure? I can get a hotel this time _

- **Yeah, I’m sure. There’s reason to waste money on a room  
** **-Unless you’re more comfortable in a hotel obviously**

- _ no ur bed is stupid comfortable   
_ - _ that’s creepy wow. what i mean is: i’ll happily sleep on ur couch again :) _

Eddie starts typing a response, but before he can his screen lights up with an incoming call. He swears quietly to himself and takes a deep, grounding breath before picking up. 

“Hey, Aunt Jo,” Eddie says tightly, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“Edward, I’m so glad I caught you,” his aunt begins without preamble, as usual. “I hate to bother you dear, but I’m afraid your mother isn’t well. I just brought her to the hospital with a terrible kidney infection.”

“Is that so,” Eddie says, turning away from the busy sidewalk to look at the creepy porcelain dolls in the window. The clown is particularly gruesome looking. 

“Yes, darling, I’m worried she might not make it through this time, infections can be so tricky in her condition. You might want to get up here as soon as possible.” 

Eddie sighs. “Did the doctor diagnose her with an infection yet?” 

“Well, no, but she’s had one before, she knows the signs.”    
  
“And she’s pulled through them before. I’m sure she’ll be alright.”    
  
“Edward, you don’t know—”

“I  _ know  _ my history with her, Aunt Jo,” Eddie snaps, tearing his gaze from the porcelain monster clown. “She’s dragged me home four times in the last year with these little illnesses, three of them not even real, just to try and get me to move home. The answer is still no.” 

“Edward!” his aunt chastises. “You really think your mother is capable of that? That she would fake something like this? She is seriously ill.” 

“Then let me talk to her doctor,” Eddie says. “If he thinks I need to be there, then I’ll come.”

“He’s a busy man, Edward, I’m not going to trouble him with this,” Jo snaps. 

“I’m a busy man too, Aunt Jo. If it gets worse, have her doctor call me. Otherwise, I’ll see you next Christmas.” 

Eddie hangs up, and releases a shaky breath. He’s never spoken to his aunt that way, nor his mother. He can imagine her face when Aunt Jo relays what Eddie said, and almost smiles when he imagines her fury that she couldn’t trick him back into her clutches again. 

He snaps a picture of the creepy clown, feeling happy and at peace in a way he can’t remember ever feeling. 

- **You know I never got you a Christmas present.  
** **-Attachment: Image**

- _ holy FUCK dude  
_ _ -if i see that anywhere near me i WILL dump your body in the fucking hudson _

- **He’s lonely Richie :(  
** **-Give him a home**

- _ you’re just as evil as that fucking clown  
_ _ -the turtle is kinda cute though _

Eddie laughs, glancing back at the clown. A small green turtle sits next to it, and it is kind of cute. He comes stupid close to buying it, but catches sight of the $100 price tag just as he’s about to go inside. He looks at them both until a shiver runs down his spine, and moves on with the eerie sense that he’s being watched all the way down the street. 

  
  


**↣↢**

Christmas comes and goes without fanfare. Richie FaceTimes him around noon, proudly showing off all his gifts from his nieces and claiming he couldn’t take the idea of Eddie sitting around his apartment all alone, which makes Eddie smile stupidly to himself for the rest of the day. His mother doesn’t call, and Eddie doesn’t call her, and he spends his first Christmas ever without hearing her voice. Beth invites him over for dinner, and he politely declines so she can enjoy her family without his intrusion. He’s also suspicious she may have invited Myra as well, and he’s not in the headspace to deal with that on Christmas. 

He’s back at work on Tuesday even though the office is a ghost town. His department has a presentation due at the end of the week and he throws himself into it, ignoring the many texts from Beth and Richie while he works. 

He has a missed call from his aunt at lunch that he ignores. He calls Richie instead. 

“Oh thank god,” Richie says when he picks up. Eddie can hear the tinny voices of children in the background. “This Simon Says game was getting out of control. These brats tried to get me to drink an entire gallon of milk in one sitting.” 

“Uncle Richie!” a voice squeals in Eddie’s ear, and he flinches. “It’s your turn!”

“Simon Says sit down quietly and wait for your mom, for the love of god,” Richie says. The girls giggle and Eddie can’t help but smile when Richie adds, “that means no giggling, Janie!” 

“Long day?” Eddie asks. 

“Dude. I have been babysitting for like four hours while my sisters hit the after Christmas sales,” Richie groans. “I’m not cut out for this.  _ No one  _ is cut out for this.” The soft giggles fade and he hears the click of the door closing. 

“Should you be leaving them alone?” Eddie asks. 

“They’re in the one room of my condo that’s kid proofed, they’ll be fine.” 

“Where are their dads?” Eddie asks, settling into his normal seat in the cafeteria. 

“Fuck only knows, they went to sightsee or some shit. I think they’re just taking advantage of having a free sitter, probably getting trashed at a bar somewhere downtown.” 

Eddie chuckles and takes a bite of his sandwich. His phone pings, and he pulls the phone from his ear briefly to see an unread text message from his aunt.

“How’s your day? Are you at work?” 

Eddie doesn’t answer, mentally debating whether or not he’s going to read the message right now. Richie waits for a few seconds before trying again.    
  
“Eds? You there?” 

“Yeah, sorry, I’m— yeah I’m at work,” Eddie answers distractedly. “Sorry, my uh. My mom is in the hospital.”    
  
“Shit, Eddie,” Richie says, tone immediately shifting from playful to one of concern. “You okay?” 

“Yeah, she does this all the time,” Eddie says. He realizes too late how heartless he sounds. “I don’t mean… shit that sounds bad. She just. We have a complicated relationship. She lied to me my entire childhood, and tries to get me to come crawling back to her out of pity, when she’s usually fine. It’s not like I just don’t  _ care,  _ or anything, but it’s— it’s _ — _ ”

“Eddie it’s okay, you don't have to explain,” Richie cuts him off. “Are you okay though?”

“Fine, really. It’s just been distracting me.” 

“Okay, well. Anything I can do?” 

“Why do you think I called you dumbass? Distract me.”    
  
Richie laughs, and launches into a recount of the rest of his Christmas Day with his nieces. His voice is warm and full of love, and it makes Eddie’s chest ache, thinking about his pathetic empty apartment. They hang up when Eddie’s lunch break ends, coinciding with the girls finally figuring out Richie was ignoring them and barreling through the door, and Eddie can hear them squealing with laughter as he hangs up. 

He waits until he’s back in his cubicle to read his aunt’s message. 

**_-Edward. Sonia is doing very poorly, please consider coming to see. She’s asked about you many times. Gwen agrees._ **

_ Fuck.  _ If his Aunt Gwen is also there that must mean she’s really doubling down on her efforts to lure him home. 

- **Aunt Jo, work is very busy right now, I can’t leave unless it’s absolutely critical. Please have her doctor call me if it gets serious.**

He turns off his phone. 

  
**↣↢**  
****

“Okay, what’s up with you and Tozier?” 

Eddie’s head whips up, and he quickly scans the area to see if anyone overheard.

“Oh relax,” Beth says witheringly, scooting back on his desk into a more comfortable position. “I’ve been waiting for Martin to go to the bathroom for like two hours to ask, no one’s around.” 

“We need a codename,” Eddie decides. 

“Fine. Trashmouth.” 

“That’s too obvious,” Eddie says, shaking his head. “Say ‘Rick’, then it could be anyone.” 

“Oh Jesus,” Beth says, rolling her eyes. “Anyway, what’s up? You never told me about your little sleepover, how was it?” 

“God, Beth, don’t call it that. We’re not ten,” Eddie says. “It was… fun, I don’t know.”   
  
“So, you guys are getting closer?” 

“I mean… yeah?” Eddie says uncertainly. “I can’t explain, it’s like… we’ve known each other forever, you know? Kinda like how you used to talk about you and Brad when you first met?” 

Beth looks him over appraisingly, one eyebrow raised, and he blushes, knowing exactly where her mind went. 

“Stop it. It’s not  _ romantic _ Beth, for fucks sake,” Eddie says. She just continues to watch him, mouth curled into a half grin. 

“Sure sounds romantic,” she says.   
  
Eddie shakes his head and goes back to his computer. Beth stays put; out of the corner of his eye he notices Martin return to his cubicle on his other side, and still Beth doesn’t leave. 

“Eddie,” Beth says quietly. 

Eddie ignores her, focused on the spreadsheet in front of him. 

“I’m not saying it was, but… there’s nothing wrong with it being romantic, you know,” she continues softly. 

Eddie’s face is on fire. He closes his eyes tight, heart thudding in his ears. His mother’s voice echoes in his head, using every slur in the book, using them against him, against Richie, accusing him of poisoning her son. 

_ He’s dirty, Eddie-bear. Dirty dirty dirty dirty— _

Beth touches his cheek gently. When he looks up her eyes are kind, and a little sad, and so unlike his mother that it flushes her right out of his mind. 

“You know there’s nothing wrong with it, right?” 

He lets out a shuddery breath and nods. “Yeah. I know.” 

“And you know I love you?” she adds, and Eddie honest to god nearly cries. 

“I know,” he says tightly, lump thick in his throat. 

“Okay. As long as we’re on the same page about that, that’s all I care about,” she says with a smile. 

She drops her hand and hops off the desk. She’s just about out of the cubicle when she turns back and says, “Should I stop trying to set you up with Myra?” 

It surprises a huff of laughter out of him. “Yeah, I think so,” Eddie says. 

“All Myras?” she asks, voice low, and Eddie laughs again.    
  
“Yeah. All Myras,” he says wryly. 

She blows him a kiss and goes back to her cubicle, leaving Eddie feeling dizzy and surreal. 

- **I think… I just came out to my coworker?**

- _ you THINK?  
_ _ -also, HI? you also just came out to me, i’m pretty sure _

- **Oh, had I not told you?  
** **-I’m kidding. I barely knew myself until recently.  
** **-Until yo|**

He hits backspace furiously, but as always Richie seems to read his mind even through 4G. 

- _ how recently?  
_ _ -sorry, that’s invasive. you don’t have to answer that  
_ _ -i’m just trying to figure out if i was ur gay guru  _

- **You definitely inspired something in m|  
** - **You definitely inspir|**

Eddie deletes the sentence, still careful to avoid the send button. He takes a breath and tries again. 

- **I’m not contributing to your overinflated ego.**

- _ so that’s a yes :)  
_ _ -that’s great though eddie, really.   
_ _ -thanks for telling me.  _

**-I didn’t, officially.**

- _ i’m right here eds _

Eddie swallows. His phone is warm from overuse, feels like a fucking grenade in his hand. 

**-I’m gay.**

- _ hi gay, nice to meet you. im richie _

**-UGH. Actually please stop talking to me.**

- _ :) never _

**-Thanks, Richie.**

Eddie watches the “...” that tells him Richie is typing for a good minute and a half. It fades, then pops up again for a second before another message comes through. 

- _ anytime eds _

**↣↢**

New Year’s Eve arrives in all it’s blisteringly cold glory, far sooner than Eddie is ready for. Just like last week, he’s full to the brim of strange nerves at the prospect of Richie’s impending visit. 

He’s off work, so he again spends most of the day cleaning. When that’s done, he decides to do some work from home to distract himself. Richie’s flight gets in around five, so he has the entire day to kill until he arrives. By three pm he’s given up working and is lounging on the sofa, watching reruns of Parks and Rec when Richie calls him. 

“Hey Richie,” he says, pausing the TV. “You at the airport?” 

“Yeah, but there’s a small problem,” Richie hedges. 

“You’re still coming right?” Eddie asks too fast, winces. 

“Aw, you miss me?” Richie teases. Eddie scoffs loudly and Richie laughs. 

“Not even a little.”    
  
“Sureee, Spaghetti,” Richie says. “No, there’s just a shitty delay cause of the weather, so it’s looking like I won’t land until closer to eight-thirty now.” 

“Fuck,” Eddie says. He runs a hand through his hair and leans his head back. “So, guess that means the party is off.” 

“Oh fuck no,” Richie says. “We’re still going, it won’t even be getting good until then anyway. Just meet me there instead of at yours, I should be there around nine.” 

Which is how Eddie finds himself hovering awkwardly outside the most expensive looking apartment building he’s ever seen, waiting for Richie in ten below weather. 

He shivers violently and checks his phone again, and still there’s no update from Richie. 

- **I am freezing my balls off, where the fuck are you??**

- _ rip to ur balls  
_ - _ in the uber   
_ _ -almost there _

He arrives five minutes later, stupid tall body unfolding out of a black Escalade. He’s bundled up like Eddie in the same dark coat he wore last week, beanie pulled over his long curls, and Eddie is hit with a sudden overwhelming urge to burrow his face in his broad chest. Christ, he needs alcohol. 

“About time!” Eddie yells to drown out his awkward impulse. He’s just  _ cold.  _

“Sorry Eddie baby,” Richie apologizes with a bright grin, making Eddie’s heart skip. Fucking asshole. “Traffic was a nightmare from JFK.” 

He bounds across the street (without _looking,_ fucking menace) and wraps Eddie in an enormous hug. He smells like cologne and cigarettes and stale airport, and just for a moment, Eddie gives in and buries his face in his warm chest. 

Richie is beaming when he pulls back. “Ready to get drunk in the most expensive apartment you’ve ever seen?” 

Eddie snorts. “How do you know what kind of apartments I’ve seen?” 

Richie raises an eyebrow and starts to lead him inside. “Oh ho, is this not your first experience with the elite? Do you have another B-list celebrity best friend I don’t know about?”

“I’ve never said you’re my best friend,” Eddie says. Richie hesitates at the elevator and looks so devastated that he immediately backtracks. “Yet.” 

Richie’s mouth twists into a half smile. “Fine. Challenge accepted. By the end of the night, I’ll be number one in your top eight on Myspace, or my name isn’t Big Dick Tozier.” 

“Mother of god,” Eddie swears just as the elevator opens. 

The elevator brings them up to the penthouse, and it  _ is  _ one of the swankiest places Eddie has ever seen. The apartment takes up the entire floor, and it’s decorated with paintings and sculptures that probably each cost more than Eddie’s entire savings account. Richie is immediately greeted by some people that Eddie doesn’t recognize who look right at home, followed by their host Zach Galifianakis. Richie introduces Eddie, and he finds himself trying to make small talk in the presence of two people who try to be the funniest person in the room for a living. 

“‘Between Two Ferns’ was actually my idea, you know,” Richie is saying when Eddie tunes back in. 

“Okay Tozier, that’s it, I can’t listen to your shit anymore, lying asshole,” Zach says, slapping Richie on the shoulder good naturedly. “Go get shitfaced and out of my hair, Jesus. Nice to meet you Eddie.” 

“Likewise,” Eddie says, laughing as Zach hits Richie one more time before taking off. 

“That was hard to watch,” Eddie tells Richie when they’re alone again. “I feel terrible for the crew of Hangover.” 

“Fuck you, we were a delight,” Richie says. He leads them to the bar and orders them both champagne. “This is what we came for anyway.”    
  
Richie clinks their glasses together, and they drink. 

**↣↢**

Two and a half hours later, Eddie is  _ trashed. _

He’s definitely been this drunk before, but at the moment he can’t remember when. He can’t really remember his own name, even. He knows he’s vertical, lying on the softest couch he’s ever felt, and his head is in someone’s lap. He blinks and sees thick glasses and a mouth moving animatedly, and his stomach does a funny swoop and oh yeah, that’s Richie. 

He’s lost track of who they’ve been talking to. He’s pretty sure it’s John Mulaney, who Eddie officially thinks is fucking hilarious. Richie was definitely not thrilled about Eddie laughing so hard at his jokes and told John to fuck off, but Eddie made him hang around just to see the way Richie’s lips pursed, trying to outdo every single thing he said. 

He looks around and doesn’t see anyone he recognizes. Mulaney is nowhere in sight. Richie obviously knows whoever it is, because he’s talking to them, too fast to keep up with in Eddie’s current state. He twists his head back and groans when the room spins; Richie stops talking and looks down at him. 

“You okay down there, Spaghetti?” Richie asks, cheeks flushed from the alcohol and heat of the room. Eddie wants to touch them. 

He reaches up to do so and Richie catches his hand, letting his other card through Eddie’s hair. Eddie groans again and nestles his head closer to Richie’s hand. 

“Keep doin’ that,” Eddie mumbles, too quiet for anyone but Richie to hear. 

Richie giggles and scratches Eddie’s scalp a little. “You’re so drunk Eds.” 

“So’r you,” Eddie mutters. 

“Nah, think my tolerance is a little better than yours. It’s not your fault, you’re just so petite. Cutie.” 

“Fuck you,” Eddie mumbles, but he snuggles closer to Richie all the same. 

Richie just laughs and goes back to his conversation, keeping his hand nestled in Eddie’s hair. Eddie loses track of the conversation, if he ever had it at all, and closes his eyes. He’s nearly asleep when his stomach gives a sudden unpleasant lurch, and he sits up abruptly. 

“Fuck,” he snarls when the room spins hard. “Bathroom.” 

“Down the hall to the right,” someone says. He has no idea who. 

Eddie is off the couch in an instant, trying hard to follow the stranger’s directions and stumbling into people and walls as he goes. Luckily most people seem to know what’s happening and get out of his way, and the bathroom is blessedly empty when he finds it. 

He falls to his knees and vomits, thanking whoever that it all lands in the toilet. He groans and vomits again, leaning his forehead against the cool porcelain seat, until he remembers people have probably  _ sat  _ on that seat and he lifts his head with a miserable groan. 

A warm hand lands on his neck, and he knows who it is without even opening his eyes. 

“Alright, you’re cut off,” Richie says quietly. He flushes the toilet and guides Eddie back onto his haunches rather than his knees. He keeps his hand on his neck, rubbing in soothing circles. “Here, drink.” 

Eddie takes the water bottle Richie offers. He uses it to rinse out his mouth, and Richie dutifully flushes again when he spits in the toilet. He drains half the bottle, and by the time he’s done he feels a little more stable. 

“Better?” Richie asks. 

“Well I don’t feel like I’m on a fucking tilt a whirl anymore, so yeah. Thanks,” Eddie says, still slurring a little, and wipes at his forehead. “I haven’t drank that much since college.” 

“Bet you haven’t puked like that since college either,” Richie says with a grin. 

“I haven’t puked like that  _ ever, _ ” Eddie corrects. He scrunches his face up. “I hate throwing up. My mouth tastes disgusting.” 

Richie moves his hand from Eddie’s neck to his face, thumb brushing his cheekbone. Eddie’s eyes lock with Richie’s, and they stare at each other for a long moment in silence. 

“You’re flushed. Wanna go outside?” Richie says finally, and Eddie nods. 

He helps Eddie up, pausing before they reach the door. 

“Wait,” he says, bending over to dig in the cabinet under the sink. He emerges with an unopened toothbrush and offers it to Eddie. 

“Holy shit,” Eddie says, taking it reverently, like Richie’s just handed him the holy grail. “How the fuck did you know this was here?” 

Richie shrugs. “Zach let me crash here a few times while we were filming Hangover.” 

Eddie brushes his teeth twice, and gratefully takes the mouthwash Richie finds and uses that as well. By the time they leave the bathroom he feels human again, and the remaining alcohol in his system leaves him feeling pleasantly buzzed rather than like his skin was on inside out. 

He follows Richie to a door that leads to them up to the roof. There’s a sizable rooftop patio, lit with stringed fairy lights and a balcony that overlooks the city below them. 

“Jesus,” Eddie says. Richie closes the door behind them; the frigid air has chased the rest of the party goers inside, and they’re alone. “Is this what your condo looks like?” 

“Nah. I’m more lowkey than this. I only have two indoor pools and jacuzzi, this is  _ obnoxious _ .” 

“Fuck off,” Eddie says with a laugh. 

They lean against the balcony railing. The cold air is doing wonders at sobering Eddie up, and he shivers a little when Richie huddles closer to keep warm. They’re quiet for awhile, watching each other’s breaths condense in the cold air. 

“So. Any New Year’s resolutions?” Richie asks. He checks his watch. “You’ve got four minutes to decide.” 

“I don’t know. Resolutions are bullshit,” Eddie says. A beat, then, “Maybe I’ll come out though. Like, officially, though there’s not many people I care about enough to tell. Except for Beth, and… and you.”

Richie stares, mouth gaping in a way he wants badly to make fun of. He looks down instead, feeling like everything is written all over his fucking face, and Richie and everyone in New York can clearly see every one of his embarrassing feelings for the dumbass standing in front of him.

“Oh. That’s— that’s a good one,” Richie says at last, sounding winded. 

Eddie looks up; Richie is staring straight ahead. Not down at the city, or up at the stars, or at him. His mouth is set in a hard line. 

“What’s yours?” Eddie asks. 

Richie doesn’t answer. His hands grip the railing so tight his knuckles turn white. Feeling brave, Eddie reaches for the one closest and loosens his fingers, one by one, until Richie relaxes and lets Eddie slot their fingers together. 

“I can’t tell you,” Richie says softly, eyes fixed on Eddie’s hand wrapped around his. 

“It’s not a birthday wish, it can still happen if you tell me,” Eddie says, watching Richie’s face, wishing he could see his eyes. Wishing he knew how to read his expression like this. 

“No, it won’t,” Richie says sadly. 

He lifts his eyes, and Eddie inhales sharply at the emotion he finds in them. Distantly a firework explodes, but Eddie doesn’t even react, spellbound by the way Richie is looking at him. Another explodes nearby, and then another, and all Eddie sees is Richie. 

“Happy New Year, Eds,” Richie whispers. 

Eddie kisses him. 

He’s not sure how it happens, but between one second and the next he’s dropped Richie’s hand and cupped his face in his hands, and Richie’s mouth is on his, lips warm and a little chapped. The sky explodes around them, and fire flares in Eddie’s veins when Richie’s arms wrap around his waist, flames licking featherlight and electric along his skin. Richie’s tongue sweeps across his mouth, and Eddie opens to him, and the noise Richie makes when their tongues meet makes his knees buckle. 

Too soon, Richie is pulling back. Eddie chases his mouth but Richie holds him at bay, eyes wild and frightened. They dart across Eddie’s face searchingly, looking for something. Eddie bites back the impulse to ask what he needs, ready to give him anything, and that’s a fucking terrifying thought. 

“Rich,” Eddie says hesitantly. Richie closes his eyes, shut against something Eddie can’t see, and it scares him. “Are you— I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have just—”    
  
“No, Eddie, it’s okay,” Richie says at last, opening his eyes. “You just surprised me.” 

“Bad surprise?” Eddie asks, because he has to know. 

“No. No fucking way, don’t ever think that,” Richie says fiercely. “I just. I— fuck, I’m sorry, I can’t. Right now. I’m sorry, you have no idea how fucking sorry, but I just can’t.”    
  
Eddie swallows, focusing his gaze on Richie’s collar. Fireworks are still going off all around them, and it feels stupidly appropriate, a twisted metaphor for his life, the sky lighting up while his life goes up in flames. Richie tilts his chin up with his finger, and it takes a long moment for Eddie to meet his eyes again. 

“I mean it, Eddie. It’s not you, okay? Tell me you believe me.” 

“Richie—”    
  
“Say it,” Richie insists. 

“Fine. I fucking believe you, happy?” 

“No,” Richie says, small twisted smile playing on his lips. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “I um. I think I’m gonna stay here tonight, instead of yours, if that’s cool?” 

The whiplash from this conversation is going to snap his fucking neck. 

“Of course, I— yeah.” 

They both nod. Richie’s hand drops to hold his waist again, as though he can’t help himself despite rejecting him not two minutes ago. Eddie stays for as long as he can stand, hands curled into fists against Richie’s chest, before he steps back out of the embrace. 

“I think I’m gonna head home,” he says, hugging himself in the sudden cold. 

“Okay, yeah,” Richie says awkwardly. “Let me get you an Uber.”    
  
“I can get one myself,” Eddie says shortly. 

He doesn’t mean to snap, but it’s freezing and his stomach is curdling with a mixture of rejection and what may actually be alcohol poisoning. Richie takes one step towards him and Eddie takes one step back. 

“At least let me wait with you,” Richie says. Eddie shakes his head, jumping when a firework goes off right next to the balcony. 

“No, Richie,” Eddie says definitively. “I’m fine. Really.”

Richie nods, and in the dim light his eyes shine in a way that could almost be tears. 

“Okay. Text me when you get home?” Richie asks. 

Eddie nods, turning on his heel, and then he’s through the door and racing down the stairs and out of the apartment as fast as he can. 

Twenty minutes later he makes it home and checks his phone for the first time since leaving. 

- _ im so sorry edddie  
_ _ -please dont hate me  
_ __ -are u hmoe yet?  
_ -home**  
_ __ -im sorry

- **I’m home. Goodnight Richie.**

He presses send, then turns around and throws up in his sink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wasn't joking that it only took 1 day for eddie to be a goner. i would apologize, but honestly they're just like that.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cw again for sonia this chapter, bit more intense than last chapter, but nothing major. again, dm me if you're concerned <3

He wakes up the next morning to a throbbing headache, and approximately eighty texts from Richie. 

It’s clear from the deterioration of his vocabulary, grammar, and spelling that Richie spent the rest of the night getting hammered. Eddie’s stomach and chest ache as he reads through the last few. 

- _im soyrry im a peace of shit  
_ \- _tis nt ur fault i sware  
_ \- _i like u so muhc  
_ \- _god and osrry ofr these rtexts  
_ \- _im srry. i cant tell u why_

He checks the time: 9:54. He doesn’t know if Richie will be awake — the last text was sent at 4:49 in the morning. He types out a response anyway. 

- **Richie, it’s okay. You don’t have to apologize so much. I was drunk, it doesn’t have to mean anything. Let me know how long you’re in town. We should get lunch, if you want.**

There. Normal, unassuming, effectively putting the ball in Richie’s court. Definitely doesn’t communicate the tremor in his hands, or the way he feels like he’s going to vibrate out of his skin every time he thinks about the kiss. 

Richie still hasn’t answered by the time he showers and eats the driest piece of toast he’s ever tasted. It helps settle his stomach, but he’s still on edge, jumping at every little sound in his apartment. His neighbor above him drops a glass on the floor and Eddie just barely catches himself before he screams, heart thumping so hard he feels faint. 

When his phone rings around one in the afternoon, he drops it twice before he can make out the number. It’s unfamiliar, but he recognizes the Maine area code. 

“Hello?” 

“Good afternoon, I’m looking for Edward Kaspbrak?” 

“Speaking,” Eddie says, cold tendril of dread snaking through his heart. 

“Hi, Mr. Kaspbrak, my name is Dr. Brent, I’m calling on behalf of Sonia Kaspbrak—”  
  
Eddie’s blood goes cold; he sits heavily on the edge of his coffee table. 

“Is she okay?” he interrupts. 

“For the moment,” Dr. Brent says gently. “Mr. Kaspbrak, I’m calling because your mother is not doing very well, I’m afraid. I would strongly suggest you make arrangements to say your goodbyes, as soon as possible.” 

Eddie makes a sound, a kind of strangled hiccup, breaths coming fast and shaky. His skin feels too tight, his heart is beating too fast. Images of his mother dying fly through his head, using her last breaths to blame him for leaving her to die alone. 

“Mr. Kaspbrak? Are you okay?” 

“Fine,” Eddie gasps. “Um, can you tell me more about her condition?” 

“I’d be happy to, but unfortunately I do need to be getting to surgery right now,” Dr. Brent says gently. “I’ll fill you in when you get here.” 

“I— okay, fuck. Okay.” 

“I’ll see you soon. Have a safe trip, Mr. Kaspbrak.” 

The phone falls limply from Eddie’s grasp. He allows himself one full minute to freak out, hands gripping his hair tight and tears pricking the corners of his eyes. Then he stands and jumps into action. 

Tickets are exorbitant this last minute on top of it being a holiday, but he’ll dip into his savings to cover the credit card bill. He gets a flight that leaves in four hours and makes quick work of packing, throwing a week's worth of clothes onto his bed. Folding can come later. 

He’s debating whether he should pack funeral wear, tears slipping quietly down his cheeks as he considers which suit jacket would be more appropriate, when there’s a knock at his door. Helen, his elderly next door neighbor, tends to bring him black eyed peas every New Years, and he’s so sure it’s her when he opens the door he doesn’t even bother wiping away the tears; Helen is practically blind anyway. 

“Hey, Eddie, I— holy shit, you okay?”

Richie is at his door, eyes wide behind his thick glasses, looking a little worse for the wear. He has bags under his eyes, and his hair and clothes are disheveled, like he threw them on last minute. 

“What are you doing here?” Eddie asks, wiping hastily at his cheeks. 

“I’ve been calling, and you didn’t answer, and I felt so fucking shitty about last night I had to make sure we were okay, and— what the fuck, why are you crying?”  
  
Eddie chokes, overwhelmed. Richie hesitates for just a second before he steps forward to fold Eddie into his arms, and then Eddie really loses it. He grips Richie’s sides hard and sobs. Richie slowly rearranges them so he can close the door, and then he tightens his arms around Eddie’s shoulders and rubs his hands over his back until Eddie calms down. 

“Eds, I don’t really gather that this is about me, but I have to say, if it is… I am not worth this, dude,” Richie says when Eddie’s calmed down some, sniffling quietly into Richie’s sweater. 

Eddie manages a laugh, wet and gross, and lifts his head. Richie keeps his arms around him. “It’s my mom.” 

“Your mom?” Richie dislodges from Eddie to grab him a few Kleenex, and Eddie takes them gratefully. 

“She’s sick, really sick, and I didn’t— _fuck,”_ he spits, wiping away the fresh tears before they can fall. “My aunt called me to tell me and I didn’t take her seriously, because my mom lies about this shit all the time just to fuck with me, and we have such a fucked up thing, and now she’s fucking _dying_ and I’m not there—”

“Whoa, Eddie, slow down,” Richie says, bracing his hands on Eddie’s shoulders. “Deep breaths, okay? Breathe with me for a second.” 

“I don’t have _time_ to breathe with you, I’m getting on a plane in four hours to Bangor.” 

“I’m coming with you.” 

Eddie blanches. “What? Richie, no, you’re not.” 

“I am. You need someone there with you, I’m coming.” 

Richie pulls his phone out without missing a beat, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Which airline?” 

“It’s… American, they were the cheapest,” Eddie answers. He shakes his head and makes to take Richie’s phone; Richie holds it out of reach. “ _Richie.”_

“Do you remember your seat? Actually, don’t worry about it, I’ll bump you to first class when we get there.” 

“Richie, listen to me,” Eddie snaps, finally getting hold of Richie’s phone. “I’m not kidding when I say things are fucked up with me and my mom. I don’t know… I don’t know what I’m going to do, or how I’ll cope with whatever is happening, and you don’t need to see that shit, okay?” 

Richie lets him finish, studying his face carefully, then says, “Look, if you really don’t want me to come, I won’t. But I hate the idea of letting you deal with it alone. I won’t even talk to your mom if you want, just let me— let me be there for you.” 

And the stupid, overwhelming fluttery feeling is back. He’d had a brief respite from it when his mother’s doctor called, but now it’s back in full force, and right now he wants to touch Richie more than he’s ever wanted to touch anyone, heart full of emotion he can’t handle on top of all the convoluted ones he’s feeling about his mom. He settles for letting his hand brush Richie’s when he hands his phone back, nodding silently at him. 

Richie buys his ticket and insists on packing for Eddie. His folding technique is atrocious, but Eddie allows it, making call after call to hotels in Bangor from the corner of his bed while Richie packs. They’re nearly all booked, even though the holidays are basically over, and they have to settle with sharing a single room. Eddie tucks that away to freak out over later. 

They swing by to get Richie’s bag, and next thing he knows they’re at the airport. Richie finds some ridiculous ‘would you rather’ game on his phone that works pretty well to distract him until they have to board. He couldn’t bump them up to first class as promised, but he manages to sweet talk someone into switching seats with him so he can sit next to Eddie. Eddie swallows and tries not to give into the magnitude of the feelings blooming under his ribs, because he has to compartmentalize right now or he’ll go insane. He still falls asleep with his head on Richie’s shoulder and sleeps for the entire hour and a half flight. 

**↣↢**

They go straight to the hospital. It’s only when they’re directly outside of his mother’s room that Richie finally hesitates. 

“I uh. Don’t think I should go in there.” 

Eddie pauses with his hand on the knob. “Oh, okay. Yeah, I should— yeah.” 

Richie nods, looking anywhere but at Eddie. “Yeah, uh. I’ll be out here if you need me, or you know, if your mom needs some lovin—“

“ _Fuck_ you, oh my god,” Eddie snaps, shoving Richie away and opening the door. 

Sonia Kaspbrak looks up, face morphing into something that could be considered fondness to the average observer. Eddie sees beyond it, feels the pin prick of a needle and smothering weight press on his chest, tastes bitter pills in the back of his throat.

More importantly, he also sees that she’s upright and conscious, color in her cheeks with a smile on her face. She puts aside the book she’d clearly felt well enough to be reading without even so much as a wince. 

“Momma,” Eddie says slowly, frozen in the entryway. The door clicks shut behind him, but he barely notices. 

“Eddie-bear,” she cries, opening her arms from her bed. 

Eddie slowly makes his way to her bed, looking around the neat room. No machines, no tubes, no medical equipment; she doesn’t even have an IV. He leans in and lets her hug him, squeezing until he can barely breathe, and the scent of her perfume makes him gag. Why the fuck would she put perfume on in the hospital? He pulls back as soon as she relents, a familiar feeling of deep unease creeping into his stomach. 

He sees her chart at the foot of her bed and snatches it, heart thudding hard in his chest.

“Eddie-bear, that’s for the doctors, you shouldn’t—” 

“‘Mild kidney infection’,” Eddie reads, scanning the chart. “‘Cleared for release December 27th— Ma, what the fuck is going on?” 

He’s a little taken aback at himself, a little thrilled when he sees his mother’s scandalized face. She narrows her eyes, joyful facade at the sight of him already dropped. That’s gotta be a new record. 

“Don’t you swear at me, Eddie. And put that down, it’s not meant for you to be—“

“What is going on?” he repeats, voice surprisingly even. 

“What do you mean?” Sonia asks. “I had terrible pain in my back, and Jo brought me in—”

“No,” he interrupts, slow and furious. “No, I mean where is Dr. Brent? He said you were _dying,_ Ma, not that you had a mild kidney infection that cleared up almost a week ago.” 

“Darling, listen, it was for your own good,” Sonia explains. Heat creeps up Eddie’s neck, anger flaring hot and fast in his chest. “You refused to come see me, and I _am_ in such poor health, dear, Jo thought this would do the trick, and she was right, wasn’t she? We don’t know how much longer I’ll be around, after all.”

“So you lied? _Again_ ?” Eddie snarls. Something inside him quietly uncaps and bursts; he can hear how his voice is rising but can’t stop it. “You, what, _hired_ someone to pretend to be a doctor and call me? I thought you were _dying_ Ma, what the _fuck_ is wrong with you? _”_

“Do not swear at me Edward,” his mother repeats fiercely. “And lower your voice—”  
  
“No. _Fuck_ no. You want to know why I never come see you? Why I never call you? _This_ is why. You don’t love me, not really. Mothers don’t lie to their sons to control them like this, like you have my entire life.” 

“That’s not true, Eddie-bear—” 

“Don’t even start. This is so fucked up, I— I can’t believe I’m still even in this room, who _does_ this? You crossed a fucking line.”

“Eddie, listen to me,” his mother snaps, not a hint of remorse in her tone. 

“No. I’m done, Ma. Next time you call, or Aunt Jo or Aunt Gwen, I’m not picking up. Goodbye.” 

He turns on his heel and storms out, ignoring the pleas and demands and furious screams from his mother, even when they get so loud he can hear them in the hall. 

Richie is waiting for him, leaning against the wall outside her room, hunched over his phone. His expression drops when he sees Eddie. 

“You okay?” he asks, pocketing his phone. 

“We’re leaving,” Eddie says shortly. “Take me to the hotel.” 

“Okay, uh— okay, shit, Eddie, wait up,” Richie says, trailing after him. 

They don’t talk in the car, a rental that smells like stale Chinese food. Eddie stares out the window and ignores Richie’s attempts to talk until he gives up and turns on the radio. Eddie shuts it off, practically punching the console to do so. Richie doesn’t push it. 

Richie carries their bags inside and checks them in. Eddie sits in furious silence nearby, and follows without a word when Richie comes to get him from the lobby. Their room is on the third floor; a small room with nothing but a bed and a desk and a water stain in the ceiling. There’s only a single king sized bed, but Eddie couldn’t care less. The second the door closes he picks up the nearest pillow and screams into it. 

Richie is a silent presence at his back. He screams again, then drops it and punches it as hard as he can, once, twice, three, four times before Richie steps forward and grabs his wrist.

“Eddie, hey, look at me,” he says softly. 

Eddie looks at him. There’s no humor on his face, just concern laced with something sadder, and just like this afternoon Eddie folds, crumples like a piece of paper, and Richie catches him by the waist and moves him so that he collapses onto the bed instead of the floor. Richie sits next to him, arm wrapped securely around his back. Eddie buries his face in his shoulder and does his best to keep himself together. 

He manages not to cry this time. Richie lets him work through it, taking deep breaths and gently telling Eddie to mirror him. He does, inhaling and exhaling in time with Richie, and after ten minutes he finally feels like the storm has diminished from a category five to a two. 

“You wanna tell me what happened?” Richie asks. 

And Eddie does. 

For the next two hours, Eddie tells Richie everything. He tells him how he can’t remember his childhood, but every time he thinks of living with his mother as a child he feels physically ill. He tells him how his most vivid memories, the only ones he really has, are of hospital rooms and needles and pills, anxiety attacks masqueraded as asthma, the overarching fear that clouded everything else. He tells him how once he graduated high school, his cousin confided in him that his mother used to feed him placebos, and how even when he left home she still tried to control him, sinking her hooks into him anyway she could. How she’d refuse to pay for anything related to his education, determined to get him to move back home when he couldn’t afford school. How he’s still nearly a hundred thousand dollars in debt from loans, how he’d worked two jobs to pay for food and rent until he graduated. He tells him how he’d sworn he’d never return home, and the pride he felt everyday he kept that promise, until his mother moved to Bangor and started to become sicker and sicker. Granted, some of it was real, but every now and then she’d call him in a panic telling him she was too sick to get out of bed. A primal instinct he couldn’t explain would always take over, because she was still his mother despite everything, and he couldn’t live with himself if he completely abandoned her. But nearly every time it was a lie, and he’d spend weeks at her house taking care of her until the claws she’d hooked in him pierced too tight and he’d come to his senses. 

Richie listens, uncharacteristically quiet, hands gently carding through Eddie’s hair every now and then as he speaks. If he weren’t so exhausted and strung out from the day, he might find it odd how Richie seems to understand so completely. When he’d told Beth about his fucked up relationship with his mother, she’d interrupted with a question every two sentences, and was absolutely flabbergasted at some of the stories he’d told. Richie just takes it all in stride, face set in a solemn but neutral expression and only speaks to ask a few clarifying questions here and there. They shift to sit more comfortably against the pillows after a while, but Eddie still gravitates to Richie’s side and keeps his head on his shoulder the whole time he talks. He’s always found it easier to talk about her without having to see the pity in the other person's eyes. 

“It’s late,” Richie says when Eddie’s been quiet for a while, physically and mentally spent. “Let’s get some sleep.” 

“That’s it?” Eddie asks. His voice is rough from two straight hours of talking. “That’s all you have to say?”  
  
“I’m kind of at a loss here, Eds,” Richie says. “If you want honesty, I’ll tell you that I really want to drive back out to the hospital right now and say some _very_ rude shit that would definitely get me written off the Kaspbrak Christmas card list forever, and possibly arrested.” 

Eddie huffs a little surprised laugh, and then laughs again. It feels good.

“Seriously, Eddie, I’m like quietly furious here,” Richie says. Eddie twists around so he can see his face, and it’s the angriest Eddie’s ever seen him. “I hate that she did that to you. I kind of like, really hate her, and I’ve never met her.” 

“I know,” Eddie says with a sigh. “You should hear Beth talk about her.” 

“I think Beth and I would be best friends,” Richie says. “And I think we could take her.”

He gets up, and digs in both of their bags until he comes up with their pajamas. “Okay. We are turning our brains off for at least eight hours, and then we’re getting the first flight out tomorrow. Up and at em, Spaghetti.” 

He tosses Eddie his clothes and disappears into the bathroom to change. They switch when he’s done, and then crawl into bed, facing each other but not touching. 

“I’m proud of you Eds,” Richie says quietly. “It’s not easy, doing what you did today, you know. What you’ve done since you were eighteen.” 

Eddie just watches him for a long time. The soft light from the street lamp outside just barely illuminates the room, and Eddie studies the shadows of his face. He’s never met anyone like Richie, never felt so connected to anyone like this, never wanted to memorize the way the light falls across someone’s cheekbones, his eyes, his lips. Richie watches him right back, and he wonders if there's a universe where Richie could feel the same way about him. 

“Thank you, Rich,” Eddie says softly before drifting off. 

“Any time, Spaghetti,” Richie answers, closing his eyes at last. 

Eddie reaches out and takes Richie’s hand. Richie’s eyes flutter open; Eddie falls asleep with Richie smiling softly at him. 

**↣↢**

Eddie dreams of drowning again. 

Except maybe drowning isn’t the right word for it. It’s rather peaceful, really, the weight of the water compressing all around him, making him feel safe and held. 

He opens his eyes, and all he sees is blue. Distantly he can hear voices, familiar in a way he can’t place, but they’re so far away it doesn’t matter. He’s alone here, like he always has been. 

Light breaches the water, and he looks up — it catches him, traps him in it’s beguiling brilliance. It should hurt, but he feels no pain, only wonderment. This is what can save him, this enveloping radiance. This is what will save him…

  
  


**↣↢**

  
  
  


Richie finds them the first flight back to New York the next morning, as promised. He refuses to let Eddie pay for his ticket, typing in his credit card details faster than Eddie can snatch the phone away. He manages first class this time, and Eddie can’t say he isn’t privately a little excited about it. 

“I’m paying you back,” Eddie insists, to which Richie just grins. 

“I only accept payment in the form of blowjobs, so if you wanna take care of that before we leave, I’m open for business.“

He winks halfway through, and bites his lip awkwardly in a stupidly distracting way. Eddie scowls, cheeks flaming, and goes back to shoving his dopp kit in his suitcase without another word.

It’s not until hours later when they’re preparing for takeoff that Eddie realizes he hasn’t looked at his phone since his phone call from “Dr. Brent”. 

He has a myriad of messages from both of his aunts, and even several from his mother, despite the fact that she claims to not understand texting. He has about twenty odd missed calls as well. He swipes them all away without reading them and pulls up his thread with Richie. 

- _holy shit  
_ \- _i’m so sorry dude, those texts are so embarrassing  
_ \- _can we talk? I’m gonna call u  
_ \- _ok i get it i wouldn’t answer either  
_ \- _look i have a show at radio city tonight but i wanna talk to u before if thats ok  
_ \- _eddie please let me try and explain. otherwise it’ll totally be ur fault when i bomb tonight  
_ \- _sorry bad joke_  
\- _please?  
-ok this is desperate but im on my way over. call me if you get this before i get there_

“Holy fuck,” Eddie breathes. 

“How many missed calls from your mom?” Richie asks beside him, engrossed in something in SkyMall. 

“Not her. You had a show at Radio City?” Eddie asks. 

Richie pales and looks at Eddie. His phone lights up on the armrest, and Eddie can make out Steve’s name and a message that looks to be in all caps. 

“Richie, you— you _cancelled_ Radio City?” Eddie repeats in a hushed voice, the unspoken “for me?” hanging heavy between them. Richie looks around, then back at Eddie, and shakes his head. 

“Not here,” Richie says, avoiding eye contact. 

“Yes, here,” Eddie insists, but he does lower his voice. “You cancelled that just to fly up and watch me deal with my mommy issues?” 

Richie quirks a smile. “Oh thank god you’re calling it that now, I didn’t know how else to refer to it.” 

“ _Richie,_ what the _fuck?_ Are you insane?” Eddie hisses. 

The captain comes on over the loudspeaker to make the usual pre-flight announcements. Richie makes a shushing gesture and points up. Eddie stares, taking in the crooked glasses and stubble and feeling that overwhelming sense of _something_ unfurl heavily in his chest. 

“You’re an idiot,” Eddie concludes when the announcements end and they start to taxi. 

“Yeah, according to you and my manager,” Richie says with a self deprecating laugh, wiggling his phone at Eddie to show the five new texts from Steve. 

“We’re talking about this later,” Eddie tells him. “You’re coming over when we land, unless you have a show in fucking Madison Square Garden or some shit.” 

“I— no, I don’t,” Richie says. 

“Good.” 

Eddie spends the entire flight ignoring Richie, because every time he looks at him it feels like the plane is depressurizing, like he’s slowly suffocating. He stares at the screen in front of him, playing some movie he couldn't name with a gun to his head, and tries to get a handle on the way he’s about to combust. Richie’s arm brushes his throughout the flight, and each time it feels like brushfire, like he’s burning alive. He’s _fucked._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> artwork for this part [here](https://www.deviantart.com/the-snuffbox/art/Blue-844460506) :)
> 
> next update we get into the good stuff, and to better coordinate with my artist, i may post on sunday instead of monday. see you then. 
> 
> until then, please consider donating, signing, anything you can to help blm [here](https://blacklivesmatters.carrd.co/#). if you're unable to donate and/or protest, you can also [stream this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bCgLa25fDHM) to help.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shorter update than usual, but we've made it to the parts of the fic i'm most excited to post. hope you enjoy <3

The door to Eddie’s apartment shuts with a soft click. Eddie shrugs off his coat, and sees Richie do the same in his peripheral vision. 

“You can use the shower if you want,” Eddie offers. “Wash the plane off.” 

Richie grins. “Maybe I like the airport germs and stale sweat, ever think of that?” 

Eddie wrinkles his nose. “Gross. I have calls to make though, so if you want to, it’s free.” 

“Okay,” Richie says, nodding. “Uh, thanks.” 

He disappears into Eddie’s bathroom, and Eddie finally takes a breath. His body is thrumming with nervous energy and he has no outlet in which to dispel it.

He busies himself by calling work and telling them he needs another day off. He calls Beth for a quick update — she’s as quietly furious as Richie for what his mother did, but agrees to cover for him at work until he comes back without question. Richie emerges when he’s done, skin pink and damp curls a mess. Eddie can barely look at him as he passes to take his own shower. 

When he’s showered and dressed, he finds Richie in the kitchen, peeking into his fridge. His hair is nearly dry, curling at the ends with more pronounced ringlets near the top. 

“Want a drink?” Richie asks quietly when he hears him come in. 

He’s got his back to Eddie, rifling through the cabinets like he belongs there, broad shoulders shifting under his black sweater. His phone is on the counter, and Eddie sees it light up with another text from Steve, probably still ripping Richie a new one. Richie still seems profoundly unbothered, calmly pulling down glasses like he didn’t just massively fuck up his career. For _Eddie_.

It hits him again, the enormity of what Richie did. Dropping everything, cancelling a show at Radio fucking City, taking care of the room and the flight home, listening to his sob story for literal hours and comforting him — it’s too much, the magnitude of the gesture, something no one's ever done for him. 

Richie turns around, glasses in hand, and Eddie moves without thinking. He takes the glasses, sets them on the counter behind Richie, and presses up on his toes to kiss him. 

Richie doesn’t respond at first, not until Eddie’s arms come up to wrap around his neck, pulling Richie closer. Richie tilts his head tentatively and parts his lips, and then it’s like a switch is flipped in his brain, like he’s finally giving in. He gathers Eddie close, thumbs brushing up under his shirt to graze his bare skin, and Eddie shivers. 

Richie kisses him and it feels like home, familiar and warm, liquid heat coursing hot through his veins, pooling in his stomach. Richie pushes him backwards until his back hits the counter, and then Richie is breaking the kiss to squat and lift him onto it. He groans into the next kiss, from Eddie or from relieving the strain on his neck he’s not sure, but he doesn’t care, he just wants to hear it again. He bites Richie’s bottom lip and it elicits another moan, and then Richie is pulling back to press his forehead against Eddie’s. 

“Eddie,” he gasps, voice rough. Eddie lets his hands twist in Richie’s hair the way he’s wanted to since the day he fucking met him, and Richie leans into it for a long moment. “Eddie, I was kidding about the blowjob you know.”

“Shut up,” Eddie breathes, kissing him again for a long moment until Richie pulls away again. 

“Yeah but, I’m just— are you good?” 

“Obviously I’m good,” Eddie answers, pressing the evidence of his half hard dick against Richie’s hip. Richie drops his head and groans into Eddie’s neck. 

“No, I got _that,_ I just mean— is this just— are you doing this because you’re sad?” Richie asks, blown pupils looking at him shrewdly. 

“ _Sad_?” Eddie gapes at Richie. “No, I told you she— she does this. I’m fine, Richie, really. I’m done with her, for good.” 

Richie searches Eddie’s face for a minute. “Well for the record, I’m still proud of you.” 

“Jesus Richie, I do not want to talk about my mother right now.” 

“I know, I know, sorry,” Richie says, head tilting down and leaning against Eddie’s forehead again. 

“Rich,” Eddie says quietly. “Is this— not okay? We don’t have to, if you don’t want—” 

“Shut up,” Richie says, but it’s said with Eddie’s favorite crooked grin. “You don’t even understand how _much_ I want to.” 

“Okay…” Eddie says slowly, shaky. “Me too.”

Richie hesitates. Eddie can see the conflict in his eyes, even if he doesn’t understand it. 

“Fuck, I want you so much,” Richie grates out. Eddie feels it slither white-hot down his spine. “We shouldn’t, though, you don’t know—” 

“Don't know what?” 

“I—” Richie trails off, eyes going glassy. Eddie pushes a hand into his hair, waiting. 

“I don’t remember,” Richie admits, blinking, and his eyes clear again. 

“I mean… you’re clean, right?” Eddie asks. 

“Yeah, I am,” Richie says. “That wasn’t— fuck, it felt… I don’t know. Important.” 

“Then I know enough, Richie,” Eddie says. Richie’s eyes bore into his, and he shivers beneath the intensity of it. “I trust you.” 

Richie does nothing for another long moment, just looking at Eddie from underneath his lashes, faces so close Eddie can see every freckle, every laugh line. He wants him so bad he aches, and still Richie does nothing. 

“Richie, please—” 

Richie surges forward and kisses him, and it’s a good thing he’s already sitting because his knees are pathetically weak. He tangles his hands back in Richie’s hair and makes a sound he should be embarrassed by; it spurs Richie on, his hands moving over Eddie’s body like a fever, and he arches and whines when Richie’s hands find the bare skin of his back. 

“ _Fuck_ you’re so hot, I— Eds are you _sure_ ?” Richie mumbles against his lips. “I don’t want you to wake up tomorrow like, regretting shit.”  
  
Eddie pulls back, grinning in satisfaction when Richie pouts. “Are you seriously going to make me say it?” 

Richie grins, smug and satisfied in a way that makes Eddie want to throttle him as much as he wants to jump his bones. “Say what?”

“You’re ruining the fucking mood.”

“Say _what_ , Spaghetti?” 

Eddie reaches up and brushes a curl behind Richie’s ear and, sighing, says, “That I’ve wanted you since the day we met, asshole.” 

Something flashes over Richie’s expression, too fast for Eddie to analyze it, but it doesn’t matter because Richie captures his lips again, and he forgets his own name for a while. 

Richie finally gets his shirt off, and then his attention is on Eddie’s chest, and it’s all Eddie can do to not just fall back on the counter and moan like a heroine in one of those erotica novels his mother used to read. He clings to Richie’s shoulders instead, fingers alternating between tugging at his hair and clenching on his neck. 

Richie groans at a particularly hard tug, and resurfaces to pant against Eddie’s mouth. 

“You gotta be careful with that Eds,” he gasps, whining when Eddie does it again on purpose. “Or I’m not even gonna make it to the good stuff.” 

“Take off your shirt,” Eddie responds, tugging it up his belly.

Richie helps him, and Eddie pushes it over his head like a man possessed, immediately running his hands over all the exposed skin he can reach. He trails over broad shoulders, through the hair on his chest to his soft belly, before circling back up to his nipples. Richie gasps when Eddie thumbs over them and leans down to kiss Eddie hard and dirty. 

“Bedroom,” Eddie groans, wrapping his legs meaningfully around Richie’s waist. Richie grins and picks Eddie up, nearly losing his balance and crashes backwards into Eddie’s refrigerator. 

“Careful, dumbass,” Eddie hisses, arms tightening around Richie’s neck. 

“Oh Eddie baby, your pillow talk gets me so hot,” Richie singsongs as he stumbles in the direction of Eddie’s bedroom. They crash into the wall and Eddie’s door before Richie finally manages to deposit Eddie heavily onto the bed. 

He crawls over Eddie but pauses, breathing heavily and smiling. 

“You good?” Eddie asks, smile of his own tugging at the corner of his lips. 

“Yeah, just— gimme a sec,” Richie pants. 

“Told you cardio was fucking important, Rich,” Eddie says, hands trailing down his chest to the waistband of his jeans.

Slowly he unbuttons Richie’s jeans while he catches his breath, heart pounding in his throat and tongue and fucking eyeballs at this point. Richie shudders when his hand brushes his dick, and buries his face in Eddie’s shoulder. 

“Fuck, Eddie, I’m— fuck,” Richie says. 

Eddie keeps going before he loses his nerve completely, pushing Richie’s jeans and underwear down over his ass and thighs. Richie picks his knees up and kicks them the rest of the way off, and then he’s hovering naked over Eddie, and Eddie feels like he’s going to pass out. 

“Rich,” Eddie croaks, then clears his throat. “I haven’t— I’ve never done this with a guy.” 

Richie kisses him, soft and comforting, careful to keep his body hovering above Eddie’s without touching. 

“It’s okay, Eds,” Richie says gently. “We don’t have to do anything, we can go as slow as you want.” 

“Fuck that,” Eddie says before yanking Richie down by the neck into a kiss that’s all teeth. Richie is on board right away, kissing back just as messy, hands trailing a burning path over Eddie’s sides and chest. 

“Eddie, can I—” Richie pauses to ask, fingers skating over Eddie’s pants. Eddie nods, and Richie has his pants undone and on the floor before he can blink.

Richie settles against Eddie slowly, pressing their chests together before settling heavy between his legs, and the first drag of their cocks together makes Eddie’s eyes slam shut, spine arching like the bed is on fire.

“Fuck, Richie,” Eddie breathes, and Richie chokes a little before kissing Eddie and building up a slow rhythm, grinding against him and kissing him deep and filthy, driving him insane. 

“What do you want, Eds?” Richie breaks away to ask, glasses askew and hair wild from Eddie’s hands. He looks so fucking earnest and fucked out when he says, “Anything you want, baby, just name it, anything…”

And the answer is everything — he wants everything from Richie, he wants Richie to hand him the moon and the stars if he asked, he wants to give Richie the sun and the warmth he deserves, wants to crawl into Richie’s skin and stay there forever, snake through his ribs and curl around his heart and make a home there. He doesn’t want to touch anyone but Richie ever again. 

_I think I’ve known you my whole life,_ he thinks. _I think I’ve known you even longer._

Richie looks at him, hair in his eyes and glasses crooked, and he loses any sense of self preservation. 

“Everything,” Eddie says truthfully, rolling his hips up to meet Richie and feeling it all the way to his toes when Richie’s eyes flutter. “Anything, I want— anything, Rich, just touch me.” 

Richie nods, looking a bit dumbstruck, and before he can second guess himself Eddie murmurs, “I love you,” against his lips. 

Richie freezes, looking between Eddie’s eyes for a prolonged moment. He blinks, and Eddie waits. Richie kisses Eddie once, twice, before shifting and kissing down his chest. He goes slow, lingering at the center of Eddie’s chest for a long time, over his heart, pressing soft, reverent kisses to his skin. He leans his forehead against Eddie’s sternum and takes a deep, shuddering breath. 

“You okay?” Eddie asks softly, reaching down to stroke his shoulders. 

Richie nods and takes a breath, keeping his head down. He looks up, eyes a dark blue storm, and then moves quickly, pushing himself up and off of Eddie so fast Eddie can barely comprehend what’s happening. 

Richie sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Eddie watches his shoulders work as he reaches for something on the floor. It’s only when Richie stands up to pull on his underwear that he processes what he’s doing. 

“Whoa, wait, are you— where are you going?” Eddie asks, stomach turning when Richie finds his jeans next. 

Richie still won’t look at him. “I forgot, I have a meeting with my new producer in an hour,” Richie says with his back to him, digging in his pockets to check for his keys and phone. 

“Oh,” Eddie says quietly. He pulls the sheet up to cover himself, feeling suddenly overexposed. 

“I’m sorry Eddie, I don’t mean to, you know… wham bam thank you ma’am, even though we didn’t— but it’s— it’s an important meeting, they’re still mad at me for Radio City, I think.” 

Richie’s hands come up to his face; Eddie is still only able to see the back of his head, but he can tell he’s wiping his eyes, and his heart sinks. 

“Rich, are you sure you’re okay?” Eddie asks. He shuffles from under the sheet to find his own clothes, and Richie must hear him because he turns around finally, hands raised. 

“No don’t— don’t get up, it’s fine Eddie, really,” Richie says quickly. He looks spooked, eyes brewing with something Eddie can’t name, and then he’s backing away towards the door. “I’ll— I’ll call you later, okay?” 

And then he’s gone, slipped through the door without waiting for an answer, and Eddie is alone. 

  
  


**↣↢**

Richie doesn’t call. 

Eddie is trying not to panic. 

Hours pass without a single word from him. Eddie paces, trying anything to distract himself, but nothing works. At nine PM, when it seems reasonable that Richie’s meeting should have ended, he caves and texts him. 

**-Hey. How was the meeting?**

He watches his phone anxiously, but nothing happens.

An hour later, Richie still hasn’t responded. 

Two hours and four shots of vodka later, Eddie sends another text before promptly passing out on his couch. 

**-I’m sorry. I shouldnt have said it. please call me**

**↣↢**

A chandelier of lights twinkle behind closed eyelids, but he can’t open his eyes to see them properly. They dance in the dark, taunting and tantalizing, unobtainable. 

_Do you remember Eds? Did you forget again?_

Eddie strains against the voice; it turns his blood cold, makes his heart race, his palms sweat. 

_You’re so forgetful, Eddie. How could you forget?_

His heart is beating too fast. The machine attached to him beeps and beeps, alerting the room full of people he can’t see but they can’t help him. He’s stuck, and his mouth tastes like blood, arms pinned to his sides. 

_Don't forget, Eddie. Don’t forget about me._

  
  


**↣↢**

Three days pass without a single word from Richie. 

Eddie goes through the motions of his life and tries not to think about it. He pours himself into his work, staying late and offering to lead meetings without being asked. He invites himself to Beth’s for dinner when he’s so ahead it’s no longer feasible to be at work twelve hours a day. All the while his phone remains silent but for telemarketers and his bank. 

“What’s going on with you?” 

They’re in a bar, surrounded by rowdy college kids and young professionals blowing off steam. Eddie had managed to talk her into happy hour tonight, even though Fridays are typically her date night with Bradley. Beth looks at him closely as she asks the question, as if she’s waiting for him to brush her off, green eyes piercing. 

“Nothing. I’m fine.”

“Eddie,” she says sharply. “Don’t do that. I know something’s wrong, out with it.” 

“Beth, it’s just— just some shit with Richie, that’s all.” 

Her eyes soften, and Eddie looks away towards the crowded pool table in the corner. 

“What happened?” 

“Nothing, we just— I don’t know. It’s a long story. I think I fucked up, but he won’t talk to me about it, or let me explain.” 

“Eddie… I’m so sorry, sweetie,” Beth says, squeezing his forearm. “That’s really fucking immature of him, and I will not hesitate to call him myself and tell him so if you give me his number.” 

Eddie smiles. “Thanks. I’d really like to just get drunk and stop thinking about it right now, if that’s cool.”

“That can be arranged,” Beth says with a sly grin, flagging over the bartender. 

They don’t talk about Richie anymore, until somewhere between their third and fourth drink, and then _all_ they talk about is Richie. 

“Seriously. Give me your fucking phone,” Beth slurs, plucking it from Eddie’s hands without waiting. It’s already unlocked, and without warning she pulls up his thread with Richie. 

“Beth, no, come on,” Eddie says, reaching half heartedly for it. She holds it out of reach, still typing, and hits send triumphantly. 

“There. He’ll call you tonight, promise.” 

She hands him the phone, and he squints at the blurry text on the screen. 

**-fine. If you dont wanna talk then delet emy number. Or you can clal me like an adult.**

“ _Beth._ Holy shit, now he’s nev—never gonna talk to me,” Eddie hiccups, frowning down at his phone. 

“Yes he will. Trust me,” Beth says with a sloppy attempt at a wink, downing the rest of her drink. “I gotta get home babe, c’mon. Let’s share an Uber.” 

Beth’s house is on the way to Eddie’s — Eddie’s too drunk for his usual backseat driving routine with every Uber driver he’s ever met. He only gets in one scathing comment about their driver’s lack of signaling before his phone starts ringing in his pocket. 

“Shit,” Eddie says, heart skipping when he sees Richie’s name and photo light up his screen. “ _Shit!_ ” 

“I _told_ you!” Beth says happily over his shoulder. “Answer it!” 

Part of him wants to let it go to voicemail, but he picks up on the sixth ring. 

“Hello?”

“Hi, Eds,” Richie says, sounding a little drunk himself and a lot miserable. 

“Hi,” Eddie says. “‘Bout time, asshole.” 

“I’m— Eddie I’m sorry, I should have called you, that was shitty—”

“You’re fucking right it was shitty,” Eddie slurs, leaning his forehead against the cold window. “You didn’t even let me expl— _explain._ ”

“Are you drunk?” Richie asks, sounding amused, and fuck him. He doesn’t get to be amused by him anymore. 

“Fuck you,” he spits, fuming even more when Richie laughs. “No, fuck you dude, I don’t have to answer to you.” 

“I know Eds.”

“ _Don’t call me that._ ”

Richie sighs. “Okay, we should— we shouldn’t do this now. Can I come over tomorrow? So we can talk?” 

Eddie huffs. Beth nudges him, obviously eavesdropping, and nods vigorously. “Yes. But only ‘cause Beth is making me.” 

Richie chuckles again. “Tell Beth thank you then.” 

“Fuck off, tell her yourself.” 

“Okay, Eddie, I’m gonna go to bed. See you tomorrow?” 

“Sure. Whatever.” 

“Okay. Goodnight Spaghetti.” 

Richie hangs up before he can get angry about the nickname. Beth is grinning when he looks over. 

“I _told_ you,” she says with a grin. “You’ll work it all out and be back together in no time. And now you’ll definitely have to mention me in your wedding vows.” 

“Shut the fuck up,” he says, blushing. The car pulls to a stop in front of her house, and he gently shoves her towards the door. “Get out of here.” 

“You’re welcome,” she says. She leans across and kisses his cheek. “Call me tomorrow, okay?” 

“Sure,” Eddie says with a wave. “Drink some water before you go to bed.”

“You too. Love you Eddie.’  
  
Eddie’s eyes are heavy; he reaches out and grabs her hand. “Love you. Night, Bev.” 

She blinks and gives him a weird look before climbing out of the car with a final hand squeeze. The driver starts to pull away as soon as she’s out of the car until Eddie snaps, “Wait for her to get in the house first asshole! Jesus.” 

Beth waves from her porch, and then they’re off, city lights flashing behind Eddie’s closed eyes as he passes out in the car.

**↣↢**

Eddie’s laying on a hard surface, surrounded by filth. He can’t see it but he can _feel_ it, the itchy coat of it on his skin. He cracks his eyes open and sees Richie crouched in front of him, with Beth and Bradley behind him. There are other figures standing nearby with their backs turned, surveying the cavern around him. Everything is coated in a filmy green haze, including Richie’s terrified expression. All he can hear is a steady dripping sound; blood is falling from his mouth onto Richie’s hand.

“We have to get him out of here. Can you carry him?” one of the unfamiliar voices asks. They still have their back turned. Eddie’s eyes flutter shut again — he’s _so_ fucking tired. 

“I’ll do it,” Richie says raggedly. 

“Richie, you can’t— your leg,” Beth says. 

Eddie’s eyes crack open again. For a moment all he sees is green — green, and Richie’s eyes, big behind his glasses, and a dais with sharp curved rocks that looks like the gaping mouth of a monster. Richie’s hands are on his face, and it takes a lot of effort for Eddie to glance down at Richie’s leg to see it’s bleeding badly. He tries to speak, to tell Richie to tie a tourniquet around his thigh, but his mouth is full of blood and he chokes on the words. 

“I’ll get him, Rich, it’s okay,” Brad says gently. Richie fades out of view, and Eddie’s eyes slip closed again. 

Pain splits his chest open, and then he’s being lifted into someone’s arms. He screams but no one hears him, and the green light of the cavern flickers in and out of his fading vision. 

“It’s gonna be okay Eds,” Richie is saying distantly. “You’re gonna be okay, we’ve got you.” 

“Get the car as soon as we’re out, okay?” Beth says steadily. 

The next thing he’s aware of is being lowered to the ground, a cacophony of voices all around him speaking in frantic tones. Eddie cracks open his eyes and Richie is above him with tears in his eyes, haloed by blinding light. 

“Yeah, hey, there you are,” he says thickly, hands on Eddie’s face. “Stay with me, okay Spaghetti? Just a little longer.” 

But his eyes are _so_ heavy, and they close of their own accord, and Richie fades away, whispering things he can no longer understand as it all goes dark…


	8. Chapter 8

Eddie wakes the next morning to soft knocking at his front door. He blinks several times in quick succession, trying to bring himself back to the present. He still sees green with every other blink. 

His alarm clock tells him it’s eleven, but that can’t be right. His power must have flickered last night; he hasn’t slept past nine since college. The knocking gets louder, and Eddie is just about to roll over and ignore it when his phone rings. 

“Jesu— h’lo?” he answers sleepily. 

“Uh, morning. Did I wake the beast?”

Eddie sits straight up, heart thudding as last night’s phone call comes careening back. 

“Shit. Richie.  _ Fuck. _ ”

“You okay Eddie?”

Eddie scrambles, detangling himself from the cocoon of sheets, and crashes his way into the bathroom with all the subtlety of Godzilla on a rampage. Richie laughs softly in his ear. 

“I overslept,” Eddie explains hastily, getting a glance of his pillow-wrinkled face in the mirror and wincing. Richie laughs again and Eddie scowls at his reflection. 

“Okay, do you want— I can come back?“

“No,” Eddie interrupts. If Richie leaves he might never come back, and the thought turns his stomach more than the hangover. “Just— give me a minute?” 

“Sure,” Richie agrees, and Eddie releases a breath.

He brushes his teeth and throws on the first pair of jeans he finds, electing to keep on the white tee he slept in after a quick sniff check. His hair is unsalvageable, waves wild and matted like a rats nest. He does take the time to wash his face, because there is definitely some dried drool on his cheeks. 

Richie is leaning against the wall next to his door when he opens it, scrolling through his phone with his other hand tucked in his jacket pocket. Eddie takes a moment just to take him in, stomach fluttering wildly even around the dark ulcer of anger. It’s infuriating how much he’s missed him. 

“Hey,” he says and Richie stirs. 

“Hey,” Richie greets him. “Sorry, uh… pictures from my niece’s soccer tournament,” he says, holding the phone up in explanation. 

“It’s fine,” Eddie says with a shrug. “Um. You can come in.” 

“Okay. Thanks,” Richie says, snaking past where Eddie is holding the door open.

Eddie closes the door and leans back against it. Richie’s hands burrow into his jacket pocket and they stare at each other for a long awkward minute.

“So. Fun night?” Richie asks with a sad attempt at a mischievous grin. Eddie can see right through it to the twitching of his fingers under the fabric of his coat, and the tightness in his eyes. 

“Not really,” Eddie says, crossing his arms. “Had to resort to threats to get you to talk to me, so not one of my best nights.”

“Thought it was Beth that threatened me,” Richie says, mouth twitching. 

“Don’t,” Eddie says severely, and Richie sobers. 

They’re quiet again for a long minute. Richie looks between Eddie’s face and his shoes. He runs a hand through his hair and then drops it. Eddie should probably invite Richie inside further than his doorstep, but a small vindictive part of him wants to make him uncomfortable for a while longer. 

“Eddie, maybe we should—“

“Why did you leave?”

He doesn’t mean to say it. It just sort of spills out of his mouth, forced out from deep within like a pot of water boiling over. 

Richie pales. Eddie has no idea what he expected when he agreed to talk and he almost laughs. 

“I— I’ve been busy, Eds, Steve has been up my ass about firing my writers, and Radio City—“

“Bullshit,” Eddie snaps, and Richie’s mouth closes with a click. “You’ve been ignoring me. Why?”

“Eddie,” Richie says softly, and stops. “I can’t— it’s complicated, okay?”

“It’s complicated,” Eddie repeats. Richie nods, looking like he’d literally rather be anywhere else. “Do you not— I mean, if you want to end… whatever this is,” he gestures vaguely between them, “then just fucking say so, man. I’m an adult, I can handle it.” 

“I don’t,” Richie says quickly, taking a tentative step towards Eddie. He shrinks against the door unconsciously. “I swear, I don’t want to end it.” 

“Okay,” Eddie says with a shrug. “Then tell me what’s going on.” 

“I don’t want to,” Richie says evasively, looking anywhere but at Eddie and sounding like a guilty five year old caught with his hand in the cookie jar. 

“Richie, for fucks sake,” Eddie says with a laugh. “Did I do something wrong? When we— you know…” 

He can’t say it; his face is hot and prickly. Richie looks up, and it would be funny the way his jaw dropped if Eddie weren’t squirming with embarrassment. Richie closes the distance between them; his hands hover around Eddie’s shoulders, and when he nods Richie finally touches him, chilled hands cupping his neck. Eddie’s eyes nearly fall shut in relief. 

“ _ No,  _ Eds. Oh my god please don’t tell me you’ve been thinking I ignored you because I thought the sex was gonna bad.” Richie pleads. 

“So you admit you were ignoring me,” Eddie says instead. 

“Eddie.  _ No. _ I’m not that big of an asshole, Jesus. And that was like, the  _ best  _ night of my fucking life anyway.“

“ _ Don’t  _ fucking lie Richie, god, we didn’t even— you left! And it was my first time with a guy, it would, you know, make sense if you thought— if it wasn’t good for you.”

His face is now roughly the same temperature as the surface of the sun, and Richie has the audacity to laugh. He leans down like he can’t help himself to press his forehead against Eddie’s. 

“Eds, don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re really dumb.” 

Eddie tries to pull away indignantly, but he doesn’t have far he can go and knocks his head against the door. “You motherf—“

“Indeed. Sonia and I  _ did  _ have a special bond in Bangor, you know—  _ ow,”  _ Richie cries, doubling over from Eddie’s hand ramming into his diaphragm, laughing between gasping breaths. 

“So if it was so fucking great then why’d you leave?” 

Richie finishes catching his breath and straightens. He brushes a thumb over Eddie’s cheek and settles his hand there.    
  
“Eddie. Believe me when I say that night was literally the best I’ve ever had,” Richie says, voice so steady and earnest he believes him. “You did nothing wrong.” 

“Obviously I did,” Eddie says with a huff. Richie’s hand moves to his hair, and he closes his eyes momentarily at the feel of it. 

“No, I just— I’ve never had anything like this Eds. And there’s some shit I can’t— tell you, and I just. Got a little freaked. It’s all on me, I promise.” 

Eddie takes a moment to absorb this. Richie’s fingers find a snag in his hair. “You have such cute bedhead. You should ease up on the gel sometimes, let these curls breathe.” 

“Shut up,” Eddie says quietly, eyes still closed. 

He blinks his eyes open; Richie has a look of utter adoration on his face as he detangles Eddie’s hair, smiling softly, and  _ fuck _ Eddie loves him. 

And  _ fuck.  _ Eddie loves him. 

“Oh fuck,” he says aloud. Richie’s eyes widen behind his glasses. “I love you.” 

Richie’s hand freezes, nails digging in sharply into his scalp. “Eds…”

“That’s it, isn’t it? That’s what freaked you out,” Eddie says, remembering with a blush the words he’d said, the single minded certainty of it. “Holy shit, Richie—” 

“No, Eddie, it’s okay, I just— it was just a lot, okay? And I couldn’t—” 

“Rich, I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to pressure you or anything, I didn’t mean to, it just— I just said it,” Eddie says, hands reaching up to hold Richie’s face between them. 

“There’s nothing to be sorry for, Eds,” Richie says quietly. “I mean it. It’s complicated, you know, with my career— my bosses are still trying to grapple with me being suddenly out of the closet, and it’s— I’m— I worked through it, and I’m here, and I still want this. I still want you. Like, an irresponsible,  _ stupid _ amount.” 

Eddie searches his face for a long moment. He can tell, somehow, there’s still something Richie won’t tell him, but he doesn’t want to push him anymore. It scares him a little how terrified he is of losing him. 

“Okay. As long as you’re not, like, mad at me.” 

Richie laughs, and steps closer again, leaning into Eddie’s touch. “I’m  _ not _ mad, Eddie, but I just… I just can’t. Do that. Is that okay?”    
  
“Of course it’s okay. I’m sorry,” Eddie says quickly, tripping over his words. “We— we can just pretend it never happened, if you want. Now that I know you don’t hate me.” 

Richie snorts, and finally seems to relax back into his normal self. “Yeah right. As if I could ever forget that,” he says softly. Eddie stares, and he swallows and continues in a rush, “And I could  _ never _ hate you. It’s like, ingrained in my DNA to never be mad at you, Eddie my love.” 

“You definitely could,” Eddie argues, but the rest of his argument is lost in Richie’s mouth when he kisses him. Eddie responds without hesitation, letting Richie crowd him against the door. 

“Never,” Richie mutters. He noses at Eddie’s cheek. “I once let Big Bill punch me in the  _ face _ for you, Eds. I think it’s actually physically impossible for me to hate you.” 

Big Bill...

_ Bill. _

The world slows, comes to a grinding halt, and the only proof he has that it hasn’t ended completely is Richie’s mouth on his and the rush of blood in his ears. 

Eddie pulls away from Richie slowly and grips his shoulders for dear life, vision suddenly tunneling, nausea building in his throat. If Richie weren’t holding him up he’d have collapsed. All he can hear is static as his brain is barraged with a deluge of memories, so overwhelming that he can’t focus on any one in particular. His head swims and throbs as names start clicking into place, fitting themselves in their rightful places in his mind like missing puzzle pieces. 

Bill Denbrough.   
Stanley Uris.   
Beverly Marsh.   
Ben Hanscom.    
Mike Hanlon.

_ Richie Tozier. _

When his vision finally clears, Richie is looking at him with an expression of pure horror. 

“No, Eds,  _ no— _ ”

“Richie?” Eddie breathes. 

Richie blinks, eyes huge and wet behind his glasses, and he’s twelve again, watching Richie cry for the first time after getting a split lip courtesy of Henry Bowers, Eddie’s reclaimed inhaler clutched in Richie’s bruised fist. Richie’s thumb brushes over his cheek and he’s thirteen, and Richie is holding his face in his hands and screaming his name, trying to protect him from the horrors happening in front of him, the monster that finally gives a name to the nightmares Eddie has had his entire life. 

“No, Eddie, forget I fucking said anything, please,” Richie begs, tears falling freely down his cheeks now. His fingers tighten almost painfully on Eddie’s face, and he leans his forehead against Eddie’s. “Please, Eddie, don’t—”    
  
“Richie,” Eddie repeats, voice hollow and reverent like a prayer. “It’s  _ you _ .” 

His chest feels like it’s bursting, overflowing with the love he’d lost years ago, crashing back into his ribs with the force of a hurricane. His friend’s faces, and the curve of their smiles, the melody of their laughs — he sees it all, and his heart knits itself together after decades of decay, piecing back together with their names etched in the stitches.    
  
“No, Eddie please— I can’t do it again, I can’t, not this time, please,” Richie sobs. He drops his head to Eddie’s shoulder and clings to him like a child. Eddie feels something crack hearing Richie like this, desperate and broken, and he holds onto him as tight as he can. 

“Can’t do  _ what _ ? Richie, holy fuck, I fucking— I feel like—”   
  
“‘Like you’ve been hit by a fucking truck?’” Richie finishes eerily, like he’s quoting from memory.   
  
“What the fuck,  _ yes _ , I— Richie, what the  _ fuck _ is going on? How did you know I’d say— look at me.” 

Richie sniffs and pulls his head up, and Eddie nearly buckles again at the look on his face. He looks haunted, so unlike the Richie he knows, the Richie he’s known his whole fucking life _, holy fucking shit._

“Richie, talk to me.”    
  
“I can’t.”    
  
“That wasn’t a fucking request. Tell me what’s going on, what the fuck just happened to me?” 

“I  _ can’t _ , Eddie,” Richie repeats raggedly. “There isn’t time. Last time it only lasted an hour.” 

The bottom falls out of Eddie’s stomach. “Last— what are you  _ talking _ about?” 

Richie starts to pull away, and Eddie fists a hand in his shirt to keep him in place. “Richie, just—”   
  
“Here,” Richie says, producing a slightly crumpled envelope and pressing it insistently into Eddie’s hands. “There’s no time, Eddie, I have to— I have to go,” he says, voice cracking. “Everything is in that letter, okay? Read it. Promise me you’ll read it.”    
  
Richie doesn’t give him a chance to respond. He cups Eddie’s face between his hands and kisses him hard. Eddie tastes salt on his lips, hand in Richie’s shirt going limp when Richie softens, breath hitching against Eddie’s mouth. Richie steps back, and Eddie follows, keeping their lips connected for as long as he’s allowed. Gently, Richie turns them around, and presses a final bruising kiss to his lips before he opens the door behind him and slips out without a backward glance. 

Eddie just stands there, eyes fixed blankly on the chipped paint, frozen. His heart is pounding in his throat, his ears, his fingertips. His head is full of the sounds of his forgotten childhood: the whir of bike spokes flying over uneven asphalt; water splashing and delighted squealing in the quarry; a unison chorus of “beep beep Richie!” followed by familiar nasal laughter. Bill’s stutter; Mike’s calming voice; Beverly’s tinkling laugh; Ben’s stupid radio and New Kids on the Block; Stan’s chatter about birds; Richie’s endless collection of voices, each worse than the last. 

_ You’ll float too, Eds. _

He shivers, fingers twitching with the impulse to grab the inhaler he hasn’t used in years to drown out the fucking clown, the one that’s haunted him his whole life without him understanding. Instead he wrenches open the door with trembling hands. Pennywise laughs in his ears as he searches the hallway, going as far as sprinting to the elevator, but Richie is already gone. He waited too fucking long. 

The envelope in his hands feels heavy. His fingers curl around the edges, and the crinkling sound finally drags him out of his stupor. 

Eddie turns and storms back inside. He pulls his phone out of his pocket to call Richie, but of course it goes straight to voicemail. The fucker turned his phone off. Eddie’s going to kill him, but first he needs to figure out exactly what it is he’s going to prison for. 

His name is written on the front in a messy scrawl that he immediately recognizes as Richie’s handwriting. As if his subconscious was waiting for him to remember, he has flashes of Richie tossing him notes in class when the teachers weren’t looking, of copying his notes when his mother made him stay home sick, and  _ fuck. _ His  _ mother _ . The full weight of what she did to him comes rushing back like a slap, and the air is suddenly thick, there’s not enough getting into his lungs, and he can almost feel her sharp nails digging into his arms decades later. 

He squeezes his eyes shut, and tries to bring himself back to the present, where Richie abandoned him with nothing but this fucking piece of paper and the ghost of his mother to haunt him. His fingers are shaking when he opens the letter. He takes a deep breath, counts to ten to compose himself, and starts to read. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> artwork for this part [here](https://www.deviantart.com/the-snuffbox/art/Harrowing-Insight-844702678) :)
> 
> next update will be wednesday. see you then <3


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cws for this chapter: mention of stan's suicide, descriptions of violence.

_“If we wanted to tell you everything,  
_ _We would leave more footprints in the snow or kiss you harder.”_

_-Richard Siken_

* * *

_Dear Eds,_

_I have to start this letter off by saying I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. For everything you’re about to read, for lying to you, and for leaving like I probably did, because I’m selfish and this is getting harder and harder to explain to you in person. Not least because I never know how much time I’ll have to do it. About twenty rounds ago I had this brilliant idea to write it all down for you rather than talk until I’m blue in the face every time you remember. (I don’t have a genius level IQ for nothing baby. Stop rolling your eyes. The numbers are irrefutable Eds.)_

_What you read below is what doesn’t change, so for the sake of the environment and my own fucking sanity, I’m just gonna copy and paste this part of the letter. Here goes nothing._

_Your memories usually stop before what happened in Derry 2.0, so I need to catch you up. First things first — Pennywise. I’m so sorry you have to remember him Eds, you don’t even know how sorry. By now I’ve seen a lot of versions of an Eddie Kaspbrak who doesn’t remember the monster that terrorized him as a child, and I’m so fucking sorry to take that blissful ignorance from you. Unfortunately he’s kind of important to what’s happening, so remembering that fucking clown is a necessary evil._

_Anyway, the fucker came back 27 years later, just like Ben said he would. Sweet, selfless, brave Mike stayed in Derry all that time and called us all back so we could keep our promise to kill IT. I think the scar on my hand actually fucking burned the second I heard Mike’s voice again. You told me once that yours did too._

_A lot of shit happened after that, I’ll give you the spark notes. Fair warning, most of it is not pretty:_

_-This part is the worst. My fucking hand won’t stop shaking right now, sorry if this is hard to read. Stan didn’t make it back to Derry. He committed suicide after he got the call from Mike. I’m sorry to have to tell you that — you always take it really hard. Saying it out loud breaks my heart all over again too, every fucking time.  
_ _-This part’s really violent and shitty, fair warning. Henry fucking Bowers still exists. Or, he did. I kind of killed him? He escaped prison and tried to kill you. He only managed to stab you in the cheek — you stabbed him back but somehow he still wouldn’t fucking die and tried to kill Mike, and I kind of put an axe in his head. So, technically I’m a murderer now? I’m never sure how that will sit with you, but so far you’ve only called the police on me twice, and neither of those occasions was because I’d confessed to murder. Really, it probably should have been, dude.  
_ _-We killed IT. There's a long, drawn out version of this point but it doesn’t matter because of the next point.  
_ _-IT had already killed you. Almost._

_Take a minute to breathe, Eddie. I’ve had to talk you down from enough panic attacks by now that I know exactly what you need to do after hearing this. Push down your instinct to tell me to go fuck myself and listen, okay? Breathe — inhale nice and deep for 5 seconds, then release for 7 and do it again. Visualize something peaceful. Usually I hold your hand to ground you, so pinch your leg or something so that you know you’re still here. Come back when you’re ready._

_Okay, good. Proud of you, Eds._

_Here comes the ‘batshit insane, you’re such a lying piece of shit Richie’ part (your words, obviously) — are you ready? You’re not. It’s okay. Me neither, but here goes..._

_IT stabbed you right after you saved me from the deadlights. Not just a little Bowers kind of stab, like, giant spider claw type of stab. We did our best to stop the bleeding, but it was so much fucking blood, Eddie. And even though you were fading, you were the one to figure out how to kill IT. Another small detail, but it’s really important to me that you know that. You’re so_ _fucking_ _brave Eddie, and you saved us. You saved_ _me_ _. By the time we killed IT, you were unconscious and barely breathing. We dragged you out — still have no fucking clue how, I was kind of out of my fucking mind for this whole bit — and got you to the hospital, but it was too late. You stopped breathing in the car._

_The docs tried anyway, and for once I have something positive to say about dear old Derry — they employ some good fucking doctors. If I was the kind of person who went to the doctor, I’d strongly consider transferring care to one of them. They got your heart beating again, and sewed you up as fast as they could. Fun fact: you and Bev have the same blood type. I have O negative, apparently, and the two of us donated as much as they’d allow. And after twenty straight hours of surgery and transfusions and several code blues, your heart monitor finally beeped steadily for a solid hour. The docs said if you made it through the night, you had a decent chance of survival._

_And here’s the really fucked up part: I never found out if you made it. I passed out as soon as they left me alone with you. When I woke up, it was a week earlier and I was still in LA._

_I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking you read that wrong. You’re thinking ‘what the fuck_ _did this dude snort this time??’ I’ve had the exact same thought a million times over, trust me. I thought I’d completely fucking lost my mind — I woke up in my goddamn dressing room, a week to the day before Mike’s call, still wearing your blood in my clothes._

_I’ll spare you the details of how fucking crazed I was, but it was a nightmare, Eds. I caught the first flight back to Derry and found Mike in his library. He hadn’t even called us to tell us about Pennywise yet, so needless to say it was a tense reunion. He thought I was Pennywise, yelled at me, nearly stabbed me, etc etc. until I could explain myself. Can’t even remember how I got him to believe me, but eventually he did. I begged him not to call you or Stan this time and left for New York as soon as he gave me your information._

_I found you on your lunch break, sitting outside a cafe in your fancy suit with your fancy fucking salad, and fully sobbed in the middle of the sidewalk. Keep in mind: I’m a C-list celebrity, I was still covered in blood and sewer slime, glasses cracked to hell, having a breakdown in public surrounded by thousands of people. Wanna guess how many people stopped to ask if I was okay? That’s right, none. You New Yorkers are fucking cold, dude._

_Moving on. More things happened — eventually you noticed me, and you were the first and only person to actually come talk to me. Which was super sweet, until it wasn’t, because I couldn’t control myself and kept sobbing all over you and eventually you called the cops. It wasn’t until they were literally pushing me into the back of the car that you remembered me. You screamed my name as they drove away. The cops definitely thought I was crazy, cause I couldn’t stop fucking smiling the whole way to the station. Because you were alive, Eds. You were alive and healthy and it was the best day of my fucking life._

_You showed up at the station and bailed me out before I even made it behind bars (thanks by the way), and took me to your apartment and made me shower, and when I came out you were telling your wife that you wanted a divorce. Cue lots of screaming and general unpleasantness. It was super awkward, for the record. I was literally still dripping water on your carpet while you told her you’d faked enjoying sex for ten years — classy._

_Eventually you dragged me out of there and we went to a bar and got hammered. Six vodka sodas and three karaoke songs later you kissed me, right there in the middle of the fucking bar. I’d only been waiting for that moment my entire life, and do you know what you said to me? You said, and I quote, “your breath reeks Trashmouth, go eat a fucking mint and come back.” I wish I could say it made me a little less infatuated with you, but alas, it had quite the opposite effect, you sweet talking little minx._

_Unfortunately for me, it didn’t last. The next day when I woke up, I was back in fucking LA again, and according to my phone it was 3 weeks earlier._

_That’s right, I’m a fucking time traveler baby. And it would be_ _so_ _cool if the reality of it weren’t actually like a badly written nightmare straight out of one of Bill’s books. (Bill, if you’re reading this, you are hereby prohibited from using this or any likeness of Eddie or myself for any future novels or movie deals. I mean it, Billy. I’ll fucking sue you, I swear to god.)_

 _This is about the time that I start breaking into hysterics when I tell you this in person, so just assume that I’m crying right now, because I’m fucking_ _stuck_ _, Eds. Something has me trapped in this fucking groundhog day bullshit, and I can’t figure out how to make it stop. I wake up in all sorts of fucking timelines — there’s no order to it. Once I woke up and I was 25, and then the next time I was 40, then 19, 28, 35. There’s no fucking sense in it, none that I can figure out at least._

_The only pattern is you. I always, in every one, find you. And the moment you remember who I am, really remember, it starts to reset and I start all over again somewhere else the next day._

_I’ve tried a few times to just avoid you. I figured if I never find you, we could just go on living our separate lives. It would hurt like a bitch, but at least you’d be alive and blissfully unaware of my existence, and could actually live your life rather than be trapped in this hell with me. But it doesn’t work. I literally went all the way to Fiji once to avoid you, and you showed up a week later on vacation with your wife._

_Some cosmic force is pushing us together, Eds. My best guess is that it’s Pennywise, that we didn’t fucking kill him after all. But I don’t know, not really. I’ve tried going to Mike and the other Losers for answers, even Stan. But the same thing happens when they remember me. I wake up somewhere else the next day, and they have no recollection of the crazy comedian they knew in their childhood showing up at their doors ranting about time travel and killer clowns._

_(Stan, by the way, is stupid happy with his wife Patty and the life he’s built. He loves us so much though. He did what he did for us. I’m thankful he didn’t remember me when I went to see him. He deserves his happiness, even if it means forgetting us.)_

_Sometimes I forget too. Sometimes I’ll be in your house watching some dumb movie on your couch, or helping you pick your graduation outfit, or watching you chew out some moron in a Cadillac from the passenger seat, and I’ll forget everything that happened, and it feels like we’ve always been here. That we’ll always be here. Sometimes I forget for days on end, going about my false life with you completely unaware, but it always comes back to me eventually._

_And now we’ve come to the really sappy, really depressing shit. Because I love all you Losers more than anything, of course, but I only see the others when I go out of my way to. And even when I forget the real timeline, I never forget you. You’re_ _always_ _there, Eddie, no matter what. And that is the one thing I think I have an answer for._

_You’ve probably already guessed this already Eds, but I’m stupidly, ridiculously in love with you. I always have been, and if this fucking horror show has proved anything, it’s that I always will be. In every timeline, I’m in love with you. The details don’t matter — you’re newly married and still relatively happy with your wife, I’m in love with you. You’re recently divorced and muddling through figuring out your new life, I’m in love with you. You’re twenty years old and yelling at me for dropping out of college, I’m in love with you. (You remembered me right away that time and fell asleep with your head in my lap — we only had 4 hours that time). You’re calling the cops because I showed up in the middle of the night claiming to know all your childhood secrets, I’m in love with you. You’re kissing me in the middle of a crowded bar, I’m in love with you. You’re touching our initials I carved into the Kissing Bridge when we were thirteen, and I’m so in love with you that I can’t fucking breathe. That never changes, and never will. And I don’t believe in soulmates Eds, but clearly mine belongs to you — so what else would you call that?_

_I wish I could end this letter on some kind of hopeful note. The truth is though, that soon after you finish reading this, you won’t remember me. I said I wrote this because it’s easier to explain everything this way, but the truth is I’m selfish, and I’m desperate, and this is the last of my grand fucking ideas. I’m hoping that one of these times, you’ll keep this letter and read it again later. And that even though you won’t even remember my name, maybe reading this tomorrow will trigger something. Maybe one of these times that’ll be what it takes to end this. Maybe tomorrow I’ll still be here. Maybe tomorrow you’ll find me, and know who I am when you knock on my door._

_I’ll leave my current address at the end of each of these for you, just in case. You haven’t used it yet, but it’s the only stupid idea that I have left._

_I love you, Eds. And I’m sorry._

_Richie_

  
  
  
  
  


**_Eds,_ **

**_I’m at 93 W 22nd Ave, Apt 1108._ **

**_This time was the longest I ever had with you. It was the first time you ever told me you loved me. I’m sorry I didn’t say it back._ **

**_I love you. I love you._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (would like to just gently remind you that stan lives in this guys, don't worry.)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for mention of suicidal ideation in this chapter.

Richie’s apartment is on the other side of the city. It’s one of those fancy complexes where each apartment has its own floor, because of course it is, the bougie asshole. His front door is a nondescript blue door with a fancy knocker, icicles dripping off the frame like vines when Eddie pounds on it thirty minutes later. Crystals fall on Eddie’s shoes or shatter into dust on the cement. His breath is puffing out in huge plumes as he tries to calm down, inhaling deeply through his nose and out of his mouth, exactly the way Richie instructed him to in his letter. 

It isn’t working. And Richie still hasn’t answered the door. 

He pounds again. “Richie! Richie, I know you’re in there. Open the fucking door.” 

It takes another two or three minutes of knocking and yelling intermittently, but eventually Richie appears, slowly creaking the door open. He peeks around cautiously; his eyes are red rimmed and swollen, and he just stares at Eddie, dumbstruck. 

“You’re an asshole,” Eddie tells him, pushing into his space and forcing the door open. Richie lets him in without a word, and when Eddie spins around to reiterate the sentiment Richie’s face stops him. He still has a hand on the doorknob, and he won’t stop looking at Eddie like he's a ghost. 

“I know,” Richie says at last, voice hoarse and cracking slightly. “I did say sorry. A few times.” 

“No, I mean you’re an asshole for running away after handing me a fucking atom bomb,” Eddie says. 

Richie says nothing. Eddie sighs and steps forward, reaching around him to push the door closed. 

“It’s fucking freezing outside Rich, shut the fucking door—”   
  
Richie crumples, and luckily Eddie’s close enough to catch him as he falls into him. Richie’s arms wrap around Eddie’s neck and hug him so tight it nearly chokes him. Eddie’s hands automatically settle on Richie’s lower back, rubbing slow circles and shushing him as he cries in Eddie’s neck. 

“You came,” Richie is murmuring, peppered with wet hiccups. “You— you’ve never— you—”  
  
He doesn’t complete the thought, overcome with emotion, his glasses digging sharply into Eddie’s collarbone. Eddie brings a hand up to stroke through his hair, and thumbs over the shell of his ear. His other arm wraps tight around Richie’s waist; he’s trembling all over. 

“I’m here,” he soothes Richie. “And frankly I refuse to believe there’s a version of me out there that _wouldn’t_ come call you an asshole after a stunt like that.” 

Richie chokes out a laugh. “You never— never remembered long enough. Or if you did I chickened out and left before you could hunt me down.”   
  
Eddie’s swallows around the lump in his throat. “Let’s sit down, okay? We’ll figure this out.”   
  
“No offense, but you’ve said that before,” Richie says with a hopeless little laugh, and something splinters in Eddie’s chest.

“Okay, well, I’m saying it again,” Eddie says firmly. 

Gently, he pulls Richie’s head up from where it’s still buried in his shoulder and holds his face steady. His thumb presses into his neck, and he can feel the restless thump of Richie’s pulse as it races. Richie’s glasses are a smudgy skewed mess, and his eyes are blurry with tears and unbearably sad. He presses a gentle kiss to the corner of Richie’s mouth, and takes his hand. 

“Come on. Sit down. I’m going to get you some water, and then we’ll talk.”   
  
He leads Richie further into the apartment. He’s never been here, and yet he feels an eerie sense of deja vu as he walks down the hall. He finds the kitchen without faltering once; it opens up to the living area, and he walks Richie to the couch and sits him down. He finds the cabinet with Richie’s glasses on the first try and pulls two from it, filling both with filtered water from the fridge. When he joins Richie in the living room, he’s hunched over with his elbows on his knees, face pressed into his hands. He sets the glasses down and gently pulls Richie’s hands away, holding them both with one of his and fixing his glasses with the other. 

“God Eddie, you’re fucking killing me, you know that,” Richie says softly, eyes screwing shut when Eddie presses a glass of water into his hands. 

“Drink, Richie,” Eddie instructs quietly. 

He waits, looking pointedly at the water when Richie just stares at him, until finally Richie sighs and takes several large gulps. Satisfied, he takes the glass from Richie and sets it on the table. The silence that follows is heavy, and Eddie feels like he’s drowning in it, all at once so overwhelmed and exhausted he’s confident he could sleep for a week straight.

Richie isn’t looking at him when Eddie finally asks, “How many times?” 

Richie winces at his knees. “Sixty-two. Not including this one.” 

“Richie,” Eddie says softly. Richie squeezes his eyes shut again. He pushes his glasses up to his forehead, fingers rubbing over his eyelids before sliding down to pinch the bridge of his nose. “ _Fuck_ .”   
  
“Yeah,” Richie agrees, dropping his hands back down to clench at his knees. His glasses fall back into place on his nose. “My brain feels like fucking pea soup, dude, I can’t even talk about it. I think that’s why I forget for a while sometimes, like some kinda defense mechanism in my brain to keep me from complete insanity.” 

“And… this time was the longest?” 

“Yeah,” Richie says with a small smile. “And I think— yeah. Other than the first time, when you called the cops on me and kissed me, this one has definitely been my favorite.” 

“Why?” 

Richie’s gaze shifts to his lap. Still smiling he says, “I told you. You loved me back in this one.” 

Eddie’s heart rate amps up to something decidedly unhealthy. It’s so strange, holding his invariable childhood feelings for Richie in one hand and his current feelings in the other. He can’t reconcile the two, because all at once it feels like he just fell in love with him yesterday, and like he’s loved him his entire life. But if he’s being completely honest with himself, it’s always felt like that. It’s what drew him to Richie over and over again, what keeps drawing him to Richie, what keeps trapping them together in this shared hell. 

“Why did you keep looking for me? Why did you single me out in that fucking comedy club, and follow me on Twitter, and— I don’t understand.” 

Richie smiles to himself. “I told you I tried to stay away, remember? It didn’t matter. You always found me. I figured around attempt number twenty-two when you tracked me down in fucking _Fiji_ that I might as well give in and try and find some measure of happiness in this shitfest. This was the first time I found you willingly at one of my shows though. I’d been in New York for a week, just waiting to see you on the street, or for you to just barge in my fucking apartment or something, and then there you were, the only one in the audience wearing a goddamn button up. Couldn’t help myself.” 

“‘Willingly’ is a strong word,” Eddie says. Richie laughs. 

“Whatever, it worked. I finally got you to fall in love with me, sucker.” 

He’s still smiling, but there’s a self deprecating twist to it that Eddie hates.

“I don’t know Eds. Even when it felt pointless, even when you were literally marrying someone else right in front of my face, I couldn’t— I couldn’t stay away. I almost lost you— I _did_ lose you, for twenty-seven years, in the real timeline, it just felt… wrong, to not try and take advantage of what time I had with you, as selfish as that is. In every loop, or whatever you wanna call it, I spend every fucking second hoping you’ll remember me while also being scared shitless of it.” 

There’s a pause. Eddie can’t think of anything to say to that, and Richie seems beyond exhausted. His eyes are watery, and he looks about a second from collapsing. Eddie wonders how he got through this all the times he didn’t have the letter. 

“I think I’ve always loved you, Rich,” he says to him, reaching out and folding their hands together again. “Even if I never said it before. I have since we were kids.” 

Richie’s quiet. He brushes Eddie’s knuckles with his thumb, wry little smile on his face, like he doesn’t quite believe him. 

“I mean it, Richie. You said it yourself— something keeps bringing us together. This wouldn’t keep happening if it was just you.”   
  
“It would if it’s Pennywise,” Richie retorts immediately, like he’s had the argument ready and waiting in his front pocket. 

Eddie bristles. “I don’t give a shit if it is. I’m telling you how I feel asshole, you could at least do me the fucking courtesy of believing me.” 

“How could I believe you?” Richie throws back, eyes wild. “I can’t believe _anything_ Eds. I’ve done this so many fucking times, and every time I think, maybe this will be different. I think, ‘hey, Eddie didn’t call the cops this time, maybe I’ve finally figured it out’, or ‘Eddie kissed me, that has to be a sign that this is over’, or ‘Eddie didn’t marry Myra this time! This has to be it, for _real_ ’, or ‘Eddie parts his hair to the right in this one, this is _definitely_ it this time—’”

“Okay, Rich, I get it.”   
  
“No, you _don’t,_ ” Richie says fiercely. “You _don’t_ get it. This is a lose fucking lose, okay? Option A: I stay trapped in this fucked up time loop for the rest of my life and watch you slip away _every_ fucking time, or Option B: I go back to reality, where I either watch you die, or I watch you survive and go back to your real life. Without me. None of this is real Eds, including all the nice shit you just said.” 

“You don’t _know_ that. And you don’t know what I’d do in the real— _our_ timeline,” Eddie says. Richie scoffs and turns away; Eddie grabs his chin and pulls him back. “Hey, fuck you. You _don’t._ ” 

“Eddie, no offense, but I’m sort of an Eddie Kaspbrak expert at this point, okay?”   
  
Eddie releases his hold on Richie’s chin. “More of an expert than _me,_ Eddie fucking Kaspbrak?”   
  
“Yes, actually,” Richie argues. Eddie huffs out a disbelieving laugh, and Richie shakes his head. “No, I’m serious Eddie, I know you better than you do. You’ve told me that several times, in fact. I know your favorite brand of toothpaste. I know what side of the bed you sleep on, I know your favorite books and that you can’t stand Saturday Night Live and your shoe size, which is different for dress shoes and tennis shoes, and I _know_ which size you wear for each. And I know you’ve chosen Myra over me in almost every one of these fucking loops.” 

“I kissed you in the first fucking one, Richie. Why would I do that if I didn’t—“

“To fucking torture me,” Richie interrupts hotly. “Dude, haven't you been listening? This is my personal hell. I begged you not to marry Myra once, and you _still_ did it.”   
  
“Well then all that shit about how brave I am was a fucking lie, wasn’t it?” Eddie snaps. Richie opens his mouth indignantly, but Eddie doesn’t let him interrupt. “No, fuck you. I don’t care what I did in any of those other timelines, okay? I’m telling you there isn’t one where I didn’t love you, whether I was brave enough to fucking say it or not. I can _feel_ that, Richie, and time traveler or not, you can’t fucking tell me how I feel.” 

Richie stares at him for a long time. Eddie can’t tell if he believes him or not; he just looks so fucking _tired_. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Richie says with a sigh, all the fight going out of him at once. The pit in Eddie’s stomach hardens and sinks. “None of this fucking matters, Eddie. You’ll forget me as soon as you fall asleep.” 

“Then I won’t sleep,” Eddie says definitively, and Richie laughs. 

“You say that every time,” Richie says fondly. “It doesn’t work, Eddie baby.” 

“ _Something_ has to, though,” Eddie insists. “We just have to— we haven’t thought of it yet.” 

Richie smiles sadly. “You say that every time, too.” 

His eyes slide to the window and shutter. His shoulders slump, heavier than Atlas, holding the weight of a hundred worlds on his shoulders. 

Eddie shuffles over and pulls Richie to him, tucking his head under his chin. Their height difference makes it an awkward angle, but Richie doesn’t seem to care. He nuzzles in Eddie’s neck and sniffs. Eddie feels his own eyes sting, throat too tight to speak for a long time. 

“It does matter,” he whispers after awhile. “It does matter that I love you, Richie. It has to.”  
  
“Wish I could believe that,” Richie mumbles. “My running theory is this is all part of Pennywise’s death throes, or that we didn’t kill him after all and he’s just fucking with us again. Some lasting torture before my heart finally just fucking gives out.”   
  
“Fuck that,” Eddie spits. “Do you have any concrete evidence it’s him? Have you seen any balloons, or severed heads, or any of the other fucked up shit he used to make us see?” 

“No,” Richie admits. “But he’s had a long time to figure out how to fuck with our heads without all that shit.”   
  
Eddie sighs. It’s clear Richie has his mind set. Eddie’s furious suddenly, that Richie’s opinion of himself is so low that he can’t believe this could be real, that he could be loved the way Eddie loves him. Unequivocally, unconditionally. His arms tighten as he breathes through it, and he presses his lips to Richie’s hair. 

“I have these… dreams, sometimes,” Eddie says slowly. “I’ve had dreams my whole life that I’m _—_ it doesn’t matter. These though, they… they started right after we met at the comedy club. I’m in a hospital room, and I can’t talk, but you’re there. I didn’t know it was you for so long, but now… I know it was you.” 

Richie sits up. His eyes are hard when he looks at Eddie. “What am I doing in the dreams?” 

“Just watching me, mostly,” Eddie says. “In a few of them you talk to me, but I can’t remember what you say, it’s all… teacher from Charlie Brown, garbled and shit. Or sometimes I have dreams about Derry, about the others, I… I didn’t know it was Derry, or who any of you were, but they felt… I don’t know, significant.”

“I— I don’t know what to do with that,” Richie says helplessly. “I don’t know what that means.” 

“I don’t either. But it’s why I believed you when you said that… I almost died. It makes sense.” 

Richie stiffens. “God, what if we’re both fucking dead? Maybe that’s what this is. We’re in hell.” 

“That theory doesn’t track. How would you be dead?” 

“Eds if you died, I can promise I wasn’t far behind.”   
  
“Don’t say that shit,” Eddie says sharply. Richie opens his mouth, but Eddie doesn’t let him talk. He sits up and throws a leg over so he’s sitting in Richie’s lap. Eddie grabs his face so he can’t look away. “I mean it, shut up. This isn’t Romeo and fucking Juliet. You write one fucking love letter and think this is some Shakespherean tragedy? This is _real_ _life_ , Richie. And I fucking love you, and I’m going to figure this out. And when I do, I’m going to get better, and I’m going to divorce my wife, and we’re moving to San Francisco together, and we’re gonna buy a fucking townhouse with all that Netflix money of yours, okay?” 

Richie’s been crying since Eddie started talking, but the last sentence makes him scrunch up his nose miserably. He sniffles and says, “I didn’t actually get a Netflix deal in the real timeline. I sort of... had a breakdown on stage.” 

Eddie sighs, lips twisting into a smile. “Well for you, I guess I can settle for an apartment in LA then.” 

Richie buries his head in Eddie’s neck and gives up on fighting the tears. Eddie’s shirt is wet immediately but he doesn’t care. He holds him tight, his own tears falling into Richie’s hair. 

It takes a long time for Richie to calm down. When his breathing finally evens, Eddie lifts his head and wipes the tears from his face. Richie looks at him like he’s dying, and only stops when Eddie leans down to kiss him. 

Richie’s arms wrap around his waist, pulling him closer until they’re flush, and Eddie kisses him until they’re both out of breath, until they’re both a panting mess in each other’s arms. 

“Please, Rich,” Eddie whispers against his mouth, catching Richie’s gasp in his mouth when he shifts his hips down. “Love you… please—”

They end up mirroring their position from the other night — Eddie on his back on the soft couch cushions, Richie on his elbows, kissing and grinding against Eddie until he’s practically whimpering, hands feverishly removing clothes until they're both naked. Richie picks up right where he left off, kissing a searing path down Eddie’s chest, only now it makes sense when he lingers on Eddie’s sternum, mouth and tongue worshipping Eddie’s unmarred chest. Eddie’s breath hitches, wiping away the tears in Richie’s eyes when he finally looks up. 

They watch each other, Eddie’s fingers tracing along Richie’s damp cheekbones. Richie kisses the palm of his hand gently, and Eddie’s chest tugs; he continues his way down, mouthing over his left hip bone while Eddie writhes, incoherently begging. Richie looks up questioningly — Eddie nods, and then Richie’s mouth is on him, and he’s fucking _gone_. 

He has no frame of reference for Richie’s technique, but he knows it’s the best thing he’s ever felt. Richie has one hand wrapped around what his mouth can’t reach, other restless over Eddie’s thigh and hip, holding him down with his big fucking hand when Eddie bucks up. Eddie can’t focus on anything but the slick heat, can’t control any of the noises he’s making, only aware that they’re too much, too loud. He squirms, orgasm building too fast, and he wrestles a hand into Richie’s hair to stop him.   
  
“Rich, I’m gonna, you need to—” he manages. Richie pulls off, devoting his attention to Eddie’s thighs instead, biting and licking and sucking marks into them and making him whine uncontrollably. 

“You have no idea how long I’ve thought about this,” Richie says, breath hot against Eddie’s skin. “How long I’ve wanted this, fuck, Eddie…”

Eddie’s too blitzed to answer, to say, _me too._ To say, _years, centuries_ — _longer than I can even remember_ , and it doesn’t matter anyway because then Richie’s fingers are trailing lower, and Eddie’s breath catches desperately. 

“Is this okay?” Richie asks, head pillowed on Eddie’s left thigh. 

“Yes,” Eddie says, shivering when Richie’s finger brushes his hole. “I— lube, do you—?” he questions. Richie leaves for just a few moments, back before Eddie can even catch his breath, mouthing at Eddie’s stomach while he slicks his fingers. 

Eddie’s only ever done this to himself, and if he’s being honest, he didn’t really love it. The angle was awkward, and he got lube fucking _everywhere_ , and the mess distracted him too much to really enjoy it. But when Richie leans back over him a minute later and gently presses against him and presses in one finger, he changes his tune immediately. 

“Oh fuck,” he says, head falling back against the pillows. It’s strange, but not unpleasant, and Richie takes his time letting Eddie get used to the intrusion. 

Richie goes slow, torturously slow, checking in with Eddie every few minutes to make sure he’s still okay, still enjoying it. Eddie doesn’t know how he can’t just _tell_ , what with the way he can’t stop shaking, or how he pushes back against his fingers, moaning and gasping out Richie’s name. He adds a second finger and crooks them, and Eddie nearly flies off the couch. The few times he manages to open his eyes to look at Richie, his eyes are wide, staring at Eddie like he’s something elusive, like he can’t believe they’re here. 

“Fuck Richie, I’m close,” Eddie says after awhile when he has actual tears pricking in the corner of his eyes. “I’m— _please,_ Richie, fuck.” 

He doesn’t even know what he’s begging for, but Richie shifts gears immediately, taking Eddie back in his mouth, and then it’s only a matter of seconds before he’s arching up again. 

“Richie, fuck, holy fuck,” he hears himself swearing distantly. He feels enveloped by Richie, swallowed up and engulfed in him, words and meaningless sounds falling from his lips absently. “Richie, I’m— I’ve never— _fuck,_ _Richie._ ” 

Richie hums in response, and that’s it — Eddie comes harder than he ever has in his life. His vision nearly whites out, and when he finally comes down he’s still shaking from it. 

Richie is looking at him like he hung the stars when he looks down, eyes huge and dark, and Eddie brings his free hand up to his face, thumb brushing under his eye. He drags him up by the shoulders and kisses him slowly. Richie’s clean hand finds one of his, lifting it above his head with their fingers intertwined, hips moving restlessly against Eddie’s. Eddie’s free hand wraps around his cock and Richie jerks, moaning in his mouth. Eddie pulls back to hear him and starts talking, too fucked out to monitor what comes out of his mouth. 

“You’re gorgeous like this Rich,” Eddie murmurs, and Richie whines, high and needy, cheeks and chest flushed red. “You’re the best person I know, you know that? Best person I’ve ever met— the only person I’ve ever loved.”

“Eddie,” Richie moans, face falling to Eddie’s shoulder. “Eddie, fuck, _fuck_ I love you—”

“I want you to feel good, come for me, come on— I love you Richie, come on, I want you to come—”

Richie shudders and comes hard, choking on a moan and gasping into Eddie’s neck as his hips stutter. Eddie kisses him through it, his cheeks, his eyelids, his temple, other hand still caught tight in Richie’s above his head. 

Richie’s shaking too when he comes down, and collapses on top of him. They breathe together until their heartbeats and breathing regulate again. Eddie feels warm, feels better than he’s ever felt before, even with Richie crushing him and the sweat and come that’s drying on his skin.

Eventually Richie rolls over as best he can on the narrow couch and lays on his side next to Eddie, crowding close against him and staring at Eddie’s profile. Eddie looks over and startles when he sees tears streaming down Richie’s cheeks. 

“No, Rich, sweetheart, don’t,” Eddie says softly, wiping at his face. 

“It’s okay, I’m— I’m okay,” Richie croaks, again kissing Eddie’s palm. Eddie smiles, retracts it slowly to press into his hair. Richie leans forward and kisses him, awkward angle and all, and traces his hand over Eddie’s side. 

“I’m so tired,” Eddie mumbles against Richie’s lips. 

“I know,” Richie says, looking at him knowingly. His hand is tracing soothing circles on Eddie’s hip. “This always happens. Some sleeping beauty shit always makes you crazy tired after you remember, and that’s _without_ the mindblowing sex on top of it.” 

“‘Mindblowing’, huh,” Eddie teases with a grin. 

Richie returns it, pressing a kiss to Eddie’s cheek before he gets up. Eddie watches him disappear into what he assumes is his bathroom. He emerges a few minutes later, dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt with a washcloth and a bundle of clothes in his hands. 

“Here,” Richie says, and gently cleans Eddie up. He finds a blanket while Eddie awkwardly pulls on Richie’s clothes without standing up, a pair of old soft sweats and band tee that are way too big on him. Richie grins at him when he returns to the couch, cuddling up to Eddie again and throwing the blanket over their legs. 

“You’re so cute,” Richie coos. Eddie scoffs but doesn’t say anything, body choosing instead to yawn. Richie runs a hand through Eddie’s hair; he feels his eyes start to droop. “Do you think— I should get you home, before you fall asleep.” 

“No,” Eddie says firmly, blinking rapidly. “I’m not leaving. And neither are you. Stay.”

“Eds, it won’t be pretty if you wake up with someone you think is a stranger,” Richie warns. 

“Have you ever tried?” 

Richie grins to himself. “Not intentionally. The time you were in college and you fell asleep on me was not exactly a fun way to wake up though, and I’m not keen on reliving that.” 

Eddie sighs, pressing their foreheads together. “Please just. Please stay, Rich.” 

“Eddie—”

“Here,” Eddie says suddenly, an idea forming. He sits halfway up and reaches for his jeans, thrown over the top of the couch, and digs the letter out of his pocket. “Just give me the letter again in the morning, okay? I’ll read it and remember, and then—”

“And then the cycle starts all over again,” Richie finishes for him. “That’s literally the plot of _50 First Dates_ Eds.” 

“Alright, well it worked for them didn’t it?” Eddie says shortly, and Richie laughs. “We can record you and put it into a video if you think that’ll work faster, I don’t give a shit—” 

“Eddie, baby, I don’t— that’s not sustainable. I’d be putting you through hell everyday making you remember all that shit, and we’re a different age every time. That’s gotta be putting some kind of stress on your body, no matter how many fucking vegetables you eat. I can’t do that to you.”

Eddie presses his lips together. “There’s gotta be something,” he says quietly. 

Richie pulls him close to kiss him again. His mouth is soft, and familiar, and Eddie loses himself in it for a long time. 

“I won’t leave,” Richie says softly. “Just— try not to murder me in the morning. Or you know, _do_ , actually. That’ll solve all my problems.” 

“Shut the fuck up,” Eddie says fiercely. “Don’t even joke about that.”

His eyes are slipping shut despite his best efforts to stay awake. When he forces them back open Richie is looking at him with a look of devastating resignation. 

“Just go to sleep, baby,” Richie says softly. “It’s okay.”

Eddie doesn’t argue, so exhausted suddenly that he’s unable to keep his eyes open for one more second. Richie shuffles and moves them until they’re lying tangled up in each other more comfortably. Eddie tucks his head into Richie’s neck and breathes in his familiar scent, and feels Richie nuzzle his hair. 

“I love you Eddie,” Richie says as Eddie starts to drift off, pulled under by a force as strong and uncompromising as gravity. “No matter what happens, I love you.” 

Eddie tries to answer but Richie is too far away now, drifting across the ocean of Eddie’s subconscious to be buried in the forgotten sand of his childhood. 

**↣↢**

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

_Beep beep, Richie._

“Does he have any family that we should call?”

The voice is gentle, authoritative. The one that answers is shaky, uncertain. Familiar. 

“I don’t— no,” they say. “Just us.” 

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

_Beep beep, Richie._

_You can’t run forever, Richie._

“His vitals look good. I’m hopeful for a full recovery. It’s just a waiting game right now, until he wakes up.” 

“Thanks, doctor.”

“I’ll be back in a few hours.” 

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

_Come out and play, Richie._


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cws for this chapter: dissociative state, mild homophobia & hints to eddie's abuse (eddie is taunted by something that sounds a lot like how his mother would try to belittle him. its pretty mild but take care of yourself <3)

Sunlight streams in the room, harsh against Eddie’s closed eyes. He tries to open them but they’re too heavy, and the sunlight is _so_ bright. 

“Rich,” Eddie mumbles. “Shut the fucking blinds.” 

“Hmm,” Richie grunts in response. 

“ _Richie._ The blinds.” 

“No,” Richie mumbles, “‘s too early.” 

Eddie’s lying across Richie’s body, head pillowed on his chest, legs tangled together. Richie tightens his arms around him briefly — they go lax again as he falls back asleep. His breath fans over Eddie’s hair, and Eddie slips back into sleep with him. 

It takes approximately five more minutes of dozing for realization to hit like a slap in the face. 

“Holy _shit_!” 

Eddie is flung unceremoniously from the couch, breath ripped from his lungs as his back hits the floor. 

“Eddie, holy shit, I’m so sorry, oh fuck,” Richie frets while Eddie struggles to get enough breath back in his lungs to call him an idiot. 

“Fucking asshole,” he wheezes. Richie helps him up, pulling him back onto the couch slowly, hands hovering like he’s scared to touch him. 

“Eds—”  
  
“What the _fuck_ ,” Eddie gasps, hand on his chest. 

He gets a look at Richie, glasses crooked and smudged from being pressed against Eddie’s skin all night. Richie actually looks on the verge of running out of his own apartment; his hands are extended towards Eddie but he’s poised to flee. 

“Eddie, I— do you know who I am?” Richie asks, so quietly Eddie would strain to hear if it weren’t for the deathly silence in the room. 

“Of course I know who you are, what— why do you look different?” 

Richie chokes, and then glances down at himself. But he can’t see what Eddie sees; deeper lines in his face, less hair on his forehead. Richie hastily cleans his glasses, and his eyes widen a second later when he puts them back on. It would be funny if Eddie’s heart wasn’t lodged in his throat. 

“Holy shit we’re— Eds, we’re fucking old!” Richie cries, tentative smile stretching across his face. “You look like _my_ Eds!” 

“What the fuck does that mean?” Eddie asks as Richie clambers over to cup Eddie’s face and stare all watery eyed. 

“You know what I mean,” Richie says, pressing several kisses to his cheeks. “You’re _all_ my Eddie’s, but you look like the _real_ Eddie.”  
  
“That’s not any better,” Eddie says. It’s muffled, because Richie is squishing his cheeks so hard his lips are pursed. He presses a kiss to those pursed lips and Eddie huffs out a laugh and sinks into it, just a little, before drawing back. 

“You really remember me?” Richie asks softly. 

“Yes,” Eddie answers. 

“What did we do last night?” 

Eddie flushes, and Richie grins wolfishly. 

“Shut up, asshole.”

“Come on, prove that you remember. Did I rock your world last night?” 

“For _fucks_ sake—“

“I need to hear it, Spaghetti baby.”

“I fucking hate you.”

“Not what you said last night.” 

He finally gives it up when Eddie pinches his hip none too gently, laughing all the same as he kisses Eddie again. 

“How do we know what year it is?” he asks Richie when they part. 

“I— oh shit, hang on.” 

He pulls out his cell phone, and dials a number he clearly knows by heart. He puts it on speaker so Eddie can hear the ringing. 

“Hello?” a woman’s voice answers. 

“Uh, hi, I’m _—_ looking for Stanley Uris?” 

Eddie’s heart sinks. Richie closes his eyes tight, chewing on his lip nervously. 

“He’s not home at the moment, can I take a message?” 

Her voice is light, casual. Richie sighs and grins at Eddie. 

“Yeah, tell him the Trashmouth would like a word with Stan the Man. He’ll know what it means.” 

Richie ends the call. 

“Has he ever been— have you ever been too late?” Eddie asks quietly. 

“No,” Richie answers. “I’ve never been closer to— to that than 2014, but I still like to just. Be sure.” 

Eddie nods, rubbing his arm soothingly. 

“Shit, okay _._ So, Stanley’s… and we’re… fuck, we need a newspaper.” 

Richie releases Eddie and pads towards the front door. He returns a minute later, struggling to pull the paper out of its plastic sleeve. 

“Why can’t you just check the date on your phone?” Eddie asks while Richie swears. 

“It’s stuck in 2008. Apple’s iOS couldn’t keep up with time travel, I guess. Thanks for nothing, Steve.”

He pulls the plastic off with a triumphant grin and tosses it to the ground. 

“Okay, okay, here we go,” he says to himself when he gets the paper open. His eyes scan the top of the front page and he pales. 

“What?” Eddie asks, crawling off the couch to stand at Richie‘s side. 

Richie angles it so he can see. 

August 20, 2016.

“Okay,” Eddie says quietly, tugging the paper from Richie’s hands. “Richie, what—“

“This doesn’t make sense,” Richie says. “We’ve never been this close before, I’ve never been— holy fuck, _fuck.”_

“Rich, hey,” Eddie says, grabbing his forearm. He can see that he’s on the brink of a nervous collapse. ”It’s fine, okay, we’re just a little older, it’s weird but it’s _fine._ Whatever.“

“No, Eds, you don’t get it, you don’t remember, this is when—“

His phone rings. They both look at it at the same time, face up on the couch, and see a familiar name at the top of the screen. 

Mike Hanlon. 

“Oh fuck,” Eddie swears quietly.

He collapses in a heap at Richie’s feet. 

  
  


**↣↢**   
  


“Eddie— Eddie, no, come on, what the fuck, wake up. _Wake up._ ”

_Wake up, Eddie-bear. Wake up._

“No, no, Eddie please, _no.”_

Light, brighter than he’s ever seen. His eyes roll back of their own accord as if to protect themselves, but it’s too late. He’s already blind, he’s already on fire. 

_Did you think you could save him?_

_Did you think he would remember?_

“Stop it. _Stop it._ ”

_Poor little Richie. Sad little Richie. Don’t look away, Richie. Watch him now, before he disappears again._

Someone’s sobbing. Someone’s touching his burning skin, and he tries to move, but the fire in his veins has him paralyzed, burning so hot he’s frozen. He fights the force holding him down but it’s too strong, and the sobbing gets louder. The name Richie is so familiar, but he can’t place it through the wailing in his ears. 

“Eddie, please, _please,_ ” they beg. 

_Eddie can’t hear you, Richie._

“ _Stop!_ ” 

Eddie tries to speak; all that he can produce is a soft whimper, too soft to be heard over the sounds of Richie’s cries. 

_Don’t exert yourself, Eddie-bear. You’re too delicate. Too fragile._

_Fuck_ you. 

_Such language. You’ve been hanging around that Tozier boy too much._

“Eddie, Eddie I’m calling Mike back, okay? I’ll— just stay with me, okay?” 

_Don’t stay, Eddie. He’s nothing but trouble. He’ll cause you nothing but pain, Eddie-bear. Trust me. Trust us._

The light pulses brighter; Eddie burns, and screams, and there are hands on his face again. 

“Eddie? Eddie!” 

_Oh Eddie. Do you know what he did? Don’t you know how he ruined you? Made you weak, made you powerless._

I don’t know who _he_ is. 

_We’ll show you._

The lights flare, swirling behind his eyes. Eddie screams again but it’s lost in the vacuum he’s trapped in; he never knew black holes could be so bright. 

He’s knocked to the ground, and when he blinks awake the light is gone, eradicated so thoroughly it’s as if it never existed at all. He flexes his fingers, stretches his legs. He can’t remember how to move his limbs, awkward and unsteady on his feet like a newborn giraffe. 

_Focus, Eddie. Look around._

He blinks again, and sees a stack of folders next to a nondescript to-go cup of steaming liquid. He squints; he’s in a coffee shop, sat at one of the outdoor tables. The tables are full of people enjoying the balmy weather before autumn really sets in. He stares at his coffee and tries to remember if he paid cash; if Myra checks the credit card statement she’ll lecture him about too much caffeine again. 

“Eddie— Oh my god, _Eddie_!” 

He looks up. Through a sea of faceless people, blurry and forgettable, one man stands out in sharp contrast. He’s tall, climbing clumsily out of a shiny Mustang, and the first thing Eddie notices is that his clothes are disgusting, stained with what looks like dirt, or days old blood. 

“Eddie, holy shit, it’s you,” he’s saying breathlessly, slowly making his way to Eddie’s table. 

“Do I know you?” Eddie asks, eyeing the dirty hair and thick glasses. 

_Do you remember, Eddie?_

Eddie stands as the man approaches.

_Think hard, Eddie._

“Eds, you’re alive,” he sobs. 

Without warning, the man closes the distance between them and throws his arms around Eddie’s shoulders. 

“What the fuck, man, what are you— holy shit you _reek—”_

“Eddie,” he cries, hugging him tighter, unbothered by Eddie’s disgust. 

_Cute, cute, cute! I gotta squish those cheeks Eds, I_ gotta!

“I’m sorry,” Richie sobs in his shoulder, because of course it’s Richie, he should have known the minute he saw him. _Why_ did he not know him?

“Richie, what the— what are you _doing_ here?” through the unknown emotion clogging his throat. 

_Uh-uh, Eddie. That’s cheating._

White light, undulating and blazing and painful — it’s all he can see, all he can feel. It’s over in an instant this time, and then he’s standing in a doorway looking at Richie, drenched, Stanford sweatshirt that threatens to swallow him clinging to his lanky frame. 

“Richie, what the _fuck_ are you doing here?” he repeats, only his voice is different. Higher, younger, nearly unrecognizable. 

“I— I don’t— you know who I am?” Richie asks. 

Eddie snorts and tugs him in by the hem of his shirt. He finds a towel slung over the back of his bedpost and throws it at Richie; Richie catches it but makes no move to use it, staring at Eddie in a desperate, hungried way. 

“Of course I know who you are, dipshit. Why aren’t you in California?” 

Richie blinks, and looks at the green towel in his hand, considering for a long minute. 

“I… dropped out?” Richie says to the towel. 

“You _dropped out?_ Is that supposed to be some kind of joke? Your jokes were never fucking funny, dick, please tell me you’re practicing your shitty routine right now? I swear to god, if you tell me you drove out here to visit me for the first time in three fucking years to tell me you actually dropped out a year before you graduate I will deck you, Richie, I swear to god I will.”

Richie chokes, and it could be a laugh, but it sounds like something else — and before he can finish berating him for his terrible choices, Richie drops the towel and pulls him in for a hug. 

“ _Gross_ dude, you’re soaking wet! I’m not a fucking towel!” 

“But you’re as soft as one,” Richie responds, nuzzling his wet hair into Eddie’s neck. “And you smell just as good.” 

“Fucking _menace,_ ” Eddie snaps, pushing Richie away, but a laugh bubbles its way out of his throat before he can help himself. Richie’s cheeks are pink, and his eyes are wet, and he looks _so_ fucking—

_Now now, none of that, Eddie-bear. It’s dirty, dirty, dirty._

Richie disappears, shrouded behind the piercing light that blooms between them. Eddie doesn't even flinch this time. It dissipates, and Richie is across from him at a bar, lips glistening with leftover tequila. Eddie wants lick them clean, to taste the tangy alcohol and see how it pairs with Richie’s mouth. 

“Come on. Let’s dance, Eds. Celebrate your freedom.” 

Richie’s big hands are on his hips, his arms are wound around Richie’s neck. He’s known Richie for five minutes, he’s known him for five years, he’s known him for five lifetimes. His heart thuds out the rhythm of their swaying bodies, his blood sings out the fable of their shared memories, the tragedy and the comedy and the poetry of it all — Richie is everywhere at once, flooding every part of his body, his grin expanding until all Eddie can see is the white of his smile, until he’s blinded by it. 

_Do you remember, Richie? Do you remember how he looked?_

“ _Shut up!_ I — Eddie, I’m gonna get you help, just stay with me.” 

But he can’t. He _can’t_ stay — the lights are showing him everything, showing him _Richie,_ and isn’t that the same thing? 

Richie invades his every sense. Richie is in his blood, in his skin and his chest and between his ribs, in his mouth and lungs. He’s locked in his heart, and the key has been missing for years, for centuries, forever lost because he couldn’t separate Richie from himself even if he wanted to. Richie is in his childhood bedroom, in his college dorm, his first apartment. He’s at his wedding, slipping out the back with tears in his eyes the moment he says ‘I do’. He’s sunburnt and collapsing into hysterical laughter in Fiji. He’s kissing Eddie on New Year’s Eve, he’s kissing Eddie in the middle of a crowded bar, he’s smiling at him with tears in his eyes at a new altar, just for them, he’s giggling as twelve year old Eddie dunks him in the quarry with a yell; he’s everywhere and everything and all that Eddie can see. 

The lights show him infinite lifetimes, infinite dimensions, and Richie is at the center of them all. Eddie understands Richie’s letter now, feels helpless to the inevitability of him. He understands why Richie stopped fighting it.

They will always end up here. They have always been here. 

_And I don’t believe in soulmates Eds, but clearly mine belongs to you — so what else would you call that?_

“Christ that was a cheesy line,” Richie laughs in another universe, hair cropped short and flecked with grey, so close Eddie can count each strand. The letter is worn and thin in his hands, yellowed with age. “Can’t believe you never called me out on that.” 

_How could I? I felt it too. I always felt it, can’t you see?_

“No, I can’t fucking see _anything_ , you took my glasses dipshit,” Richie snaps in another, reaching over for his stolen glasses and nearly upending the hammock. They’re sixteen, and Richie is all long limbs and greasy skin, and still Eddie wants. 

_He’s a dirty boy, Eddie-bear._

_Then so am I. If he’s dirty, then I am too. If we are created from dust, he and I are made of the same stars_. 

“Eddie Spaghetti, my little poet! Did Ben help you with this?” 

Richie is twenty-two, still gangly but grown into his looks, true to Bev’s prediction. Eddie rolls his eyes and twitches the paper out of Richie’s hand. 

“Of course not. He’s six hundred miles away. And I kind of think I plagiarized it anyway.” 

“Aww, I always knew you were a secret romantic, Eddie my love,” Richie tells him, reading over his shoulder on their bed. _Their bed._

“Fuck you,” Eddie says. He shrugs him off, but accepts the soft kiss Richie presses to his neck, just below the ear. The notebook on his lap slides onto the bedspread, soon to be forgotten and crushed under Richie’s back. Eddie’s GPA will surely be knocked down a point or two, but he can’t find it in himself to care when Richie kisses him like that. 

“Gladly,” Richie murmurs against his skin. A shiver races down Eddie’s spine and ripples across the cosmos.

More light, more fire under his skin, more _Richie,_ and Eddie is powerless to stop it. 

“What do you want Eddie?” Richie is yelling furiously. 

He’s thirty, dripping wet from the storm outside, yelling at Eddie in a gazebo outside the church where Eddie’s supposed to be getting married.

“Do you really want to marry her?” 

“I— I can't do this Richie, they’re waiting—“

“I can take care of you, Eddie—“

“Shut up, Richie, it’s not— you don’t know what you’re talking about,” Eddie seethes, also soaked and freezing in his tux. The wind whips Richie’s hair until it sticks to his skin, a clump obscuring his eyes full of tears. 

“Yes, I do,” Richie says, voice shaking with emotion. “I— _fuck it,_ I love you, Eddie. And I think you love me too. I would— I would take care of you.” 

“I can’t do this, Richie, I can’t— I promised her—” 

“What do _you_ want _,_ Eddie?” Richie asks again, tears falling and mixing with the rain. Richie becomes a blur as his own eyes fill with tears. 

_You. Always you. Make me stop, don’t let me do this, don’t let me lose you, not again_ —

A flash of light, and he’s submerged in water, but he’s not drowning like he has so many times before. He emerges to the sound of laughter, voices as familiar as his own. A heavy arm is draped across his shoulders, a familiar weight he’d recognize even in death. 

“We fucking _did it,_ ” Richie says in his ear, ecstatic. He’s soaked, and he has blood and dirt caked in his hair, and still Eddie wants to kiss him. “We killed that fucking clown.” 

“Yeah, and now we’re all going to die of streptococcus,” Eddie grumbles, wincing when Richie plants a wet kiss to his uninjured cheek. “I’m serious, every single one of us needs to get on an antibiotic the _second_ we get back to town, I probably have some amoxicillin in my bag that we could all take until we see a doctor—” 

“Killing the mood, Eddie,” Stan deadpans. 

_Stan._

Stan smiles, and his heart seizes at the sound of his voice. His eyes lock on Richie’s throat when he throws his head back to laugh, arm tightening around Eddie’s shoulders, and he feels whole for the first time in his life—

He blinks, and Richie and Stan are gone. 

“Eddie! Over here!” 

A different voice, now. Eddie looks away from the empty water and barely recognizes the man standing on the riverbank nearby. 

“Dad?”

When he speaks, his voice is high, childlike. Frank Kaspbrak looks over and smiles. He doesn’t remember much about his father, but he can recognize himself in his dark eyes. The lines that crease his face are the same ones Eddie sees in the mirror everyday. 

“Come here!” his father repeats excitedly, waving Eddie over. 

The ground is wet and spongy under his feet. It rained here recently, a massive storm that he vaguely remembers being named one of the worst in Derry’s history. His feet are bare; mud squishes through his toes, and he thinks of microbes and brain eating amoebas seeping into his skin — and just as suddenly, he doesn’t think of anything at all. 

“Look, Eddie,” his father says, pulling Eddie in by the shoulders. He’s a warm, safe presence behind him; one of his hands extends beyond Eddie’s head to point at something across the water. 

“See it?” he asks. “On that big log, look.”

Eddie squints. “A turtle?” he guesses. 

The creature in question raises its head lazily when Eddie speaks. It’s dark eyes find Eddie’s, as if it has been waiting for him. 

“That’s right, a turtle. Look, he likes you,” his father chuckles. 

“Are they dangerous?” Eddie asks, shrinking back against his father's chest. 

“Not that one. He would probably be afraid of you if you got close to him.”

Eddie considers the turtle, who’s still eyeing him steadily. It doesn’t seem the least bit afraid. It looks as though it’s been here since the birth of the world, older than comprehension. 

“Why would he be afraid of me?” 

The sun flares, and Eddie shuts his eyes against the blinding light. Even through his closed lids he can make out three distinct points of light, and he feels a cold shiver of fear despite the heat. 

_Don’t be afraid, Eddie. We’re going to help you._

The light ebbs, and Eddie opens his eyes again. His father is gone, and the daylight has been snuffed out. The water seeping into his skin is icy, and across the river the turtle is still there, still watching. 

“Dad? Dad, where are you?”

He whirls around; his father is gone. Eddie falls to his knees, overcome with an exhaustion beyond anything he’s ever felt. 

He looks up, and Richie is kneeling across from him. 

“You can’t stay,” Richie tells him, hand gently cupping his jaw. 

“Why not?” Eddie asks, vision swimming as he loses his hold on consciousness. “You’re here. I want to stay with you.” 

Richie smiles sadly. “You can’t stay,” he repeats, voice distorted and far away. “If you do, you’ll be lost.” 

“I— what do you mean?” 

The river starts to flood; the freezing water is a balm on his scorched skin, rising up above his knees, creeping up his thighs. Richie doesn’t move, and so neither does he. 

“They can’t help you, Eddie,” Richie says. His voice is different — deeper, distorted, but still recognizable as his. “You have to come back. You have to let go. For me.” 

The water reaches their chests — it runs red, Eddie’s blood mingled with the river. Richie caresses his cheek and his eyes close, exhausted. When he opens them again, Richie is gone, replaced by light reflecting on the water. When he looks up he sees the three orbs, high above his head, far beyond his reach. He extends a hand up, but the action makes him dizzy, and the edges of his vision start to tunnel. 

“Eddie, please,” Richie sobs from somewhere else, somewhere far away. He can’t see him anymore, but he feels his presence like a phantom limb. 

“I love you.”

The words are lost in the night. The water rises, and Eddie falls, sinks into the icy depths, surrounded by turtles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and they were soulmates (oh my god they were soulmates)
> 
> gonna be adding that 'time loop' tag once everyone's had a chance to catch up, kudos to those that guessed it! :) next update on saturday!
> 
> artwork for this part [here](https://www.deviantart.com/the-snuffbox/art/Three-suns-845144899) and [here](https://www.deviantart.com/the-snuffbox/art/Into-the-depth-845145425) :)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> get ready for some POV switches from this point on! the losers are finally here <3
> 
> to answer a few questions i've gotten: yes, eddie saw things richie didn't (i.e. futures that richie never lived through) that is on purpose :) okay that was only one question but i am still trying to be a little unknowable
> 
> there is a playlist for this fic that i keep forgetting to post!! you can listen [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/06A43lJIT8oEgOhITG6Yfq?si=gZoZI3zhSSui4enP8FnH1A)

“He’s stable. I still can’t determine what caused his loss of consciousness, but everything looks good. Blood pressure and heart rate look great, bloodwork is all within normal limits.” 

Bill nods solemnly. Beverly turns and presses her face into Ben's shoulder. Mike claps a hand on Stan’s shoulder and releases a shaky breath. 

“What about Eddie?” 

The doctors face changes. “He’s still a question mark, I’m afraid. I’m happy with how his surgeries went, and I’m thrilled he made it through the night. I think he’s out of the worst danger, but there’s still a long way to go. His lungs took a lot of damage, and internal bleeding is unpredictable. We’re monitoring him carefully.”

“Can we see him?” Bill asks.

“Not just yet, I’m afraid. We don’t want to risk infection while he’s in ICU.” 

“You let Richie in,” Stan points out. 

“Different circumstances,” Beverly says, nudging his elbow discreetly. Luckily he takes the hint. 

“Mr. Tozier could use the visitors. Try talking to him, it might just pull him out sooner. Who knows.”

The doctor smiles encouragingly and brushes past them, leaving them alone with Richie’s prone, beeping body. 

“‘Who knows’, shouldn’t he fucking know?” Stan grumbles, shaking off Mike's hand. He goes to stand at Richies left shoulder and touches his arm, trailing down to hold his hand. 

“They saved Eddie’s life, Stan,” Ben says quietly. Stan’s shoulders slump.

“I know. I just…” 

He trails off. They understand anyway, of course. 

The others join Stan around Richie’s bed. Ben and Bill pull various chairs over so everyone can make themselves comfortable, surrounding his bed like a protective human bubble. 

“I just don’t get it,” Mike says softly once they’ve sat in contemplative silence for a full minute. “Richie was fine. I mean, apart from... “ 

Mike jerks his head up. They all understand he seems to be gesturing to the floor above them where Eddie is. “What could have done this to him?”

“Are w-we sure It’s dead?” Bill asks, not for the first time. 

“It has to be,” Ben answers. “I mean, I felt it… didn’t you?” 

There’s various noises of assent and nodding from all but one. 

“No,” Stan says. 

Five pairs of eyes land on him. He’s staring hard at Richie, connected to wires and machines but breathing on his own. The unease coats him like a cloud, radiates off his body and spreads to the rest of them. They feel it at once, as though they are one soul in seven bodies. 

Instead of elaborating Stan gets to his feet, chair scraping loudly against the hospital floor. He gives Richie one last pleading look before he spins on his heel and disappears. 

They watch him leave and trade confused looks; Bill shrugs when everyone’s gaze falls to him.

“Don't look at me. I know as m-m-much as the rest of you.”

“I’ll go,” Beverly offers. 

He didn’t go far. Bev finds him on the floor right outside Richie’s room, knees to his chest and head in his hands. She slides down next to him and loops her arm through Stan’s. Stan reaches for her hand after a few minutes and holds it tight, other hand pressed against his eyes, and for a long time they just sit quietly together. 

“I shouldn’t be here,” Stan says after a while. His voice is rough with tears.

“What do you mean?”

“Something is wrong,” Stan continues. He lifts his head and wipes his eyes. “I don’t— I don’t remember killing It. I don’t remember much from the last few days, actually, except showing up at the Townhouse, and dinner at Jade, and even that is… murky.”

“That’s okay, Stan,” Bev says. She squeezes his fingers. “I don’t think any of us have all of our memories from the last few days. I don’t remember getting to the house on Neibolt. Ben told me he doesn’t remember checking in to the Townhouse. You know how this place is.”

“This is different,” Stanley insists. “I feel like I shouldn’t be — like I don’t belong here.”

“Of course you do,” Bev says. “No matter what other Derry amnesia bullshit might be happening, you always belong here. With us.” 

“So you don’t… I mean, you remember seeing me at dinner the other night, right?” 

“Of course,” Bev says, but it’s only half true. Her memories of that night are hazy at best; all she knows for sure is that Stan has been with them from the beginning. 

They’re quiet again. No one pays any mind to the two people huddled on the hospital floor looking beat to hell, their joined hands the only thing keeping them from crumbling to pieces on the floor. 

“Hey Stan?” 

“Yeah, Bev.”

“Is it hot in here to you?” 

Stan glances to the left; Bev is flushed, drops of sweat beading on her forehead. 

“No, it’s freezing. You okay?” 

“I feel weird,” Bev answers weakly. 

They’re sitting, so she doesn’t have far to go; she sways and sags into his shoulder. Her eyelids flutter, and before Stan can so much as yell for help she crumples in his arms. 

_ So nice to see you again, Beverly. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> stanley uris i love you so much


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for some talk of self loathing and mild injuries.

Until recently, Richie thought there was nothing worse than his own self loathing. Nothing that could tear him to shreds the way that hatred did, nothing that could leave him hollow and agonized the way it did, drowning himself in bottles of booze most nights to fill in the holes. 

That was until he remembered. Until he saw Eddie again, and thought, ‘ _ oh, it’s you. Of course it’s you.’  _

Until he rediscovered the people that made him whole, the missing puzzle pieces that made him feel accepted, whose love was powerful enough to overcome his self hatred. Until he watched the love of his life get ripped away from him with a claw in his chest, until he’d carried his limp bleeding body out of the sewers. Until he started this fucked up cycle of getting him back and losing him over and over again. Until he lost the five other loves of his life, seemingly forever. 

And now, Richie is in his sixty-third version of this fucked up cycle — sixty-fourth? He can’t be sure, and it doesn’t matter anyway. He’s lived this too many fucking times, more times than his sanity can even begin to cope with anymore — and Eddie is lying motionless on the floor, eyes rolled back and mouth ajar, a picture perfect recreation of Bev in the deadlights, and Richie is so terrified he can’t breathe. Eddie is still breathing, but it’s shallow and rattly just like it had been in the hospital, each shaky inhale like a dagger in Richie’s chest. He called the ambulance twenty minutes ago and was met with dead air, and Mike isn’t picking up the phone.

Eddie keeps mumbling things, things that sound vaguely familiar but mostly just seem like ramblings mixed with his name. He hears things too, a taunting voice flitting around his head like an irksome fly. He doesn’t have room to think about it, or figure out where it’s coming from, or even  _ care  _ when Eddie is dying on his floor. 

“Richie,” Eddie mumbles.

“Eds,” Richie gasps. He grabs Eddie’s face, but he’s still unconscious. “Eddie, I don’t know what to do — no one’s fucking picking up. Please come back, Eddie, please.” 

Eddie doesn’t move. His eyelids flutter but Richie can still only see the whites. 

“No one is coming,” Richie says, but it’s not his voice that says it. It’s something guttural that worked its way up his throat against his will, evolving into a whimper. He presses his head into Eddie’s chest and cries until his whole body seizes with the force of his sobs. 

_ Don’t you want it to stop? Give up, Richie. We’ll make it stop.  _

“Fuck  _ off, _ ” Richie seethes. 

The picture he must make. On his knees, his best friend unconscious before him, bent over his body and arguing with a noncorporeal voice that won’t stop taunting him. 

It’s not like he’s not used to demons after all this time. He should put it on his fucking resume at this point. Richie Tozier: Comedian, Actor, Demon Fighter. Occasional Voice Work. 

He checks his watch: thirty minutes since he called 911. Eddie’s still breathing, but he can’t stay like this much longer. He’s watched enough late night medical soaps to know brain damage starts to happen immediately in a coma. Unsteadily he moves into a crouch, and one attempt at lifting Eddie is all it takes for Richie to know he can’t carry his deadweight. He needs help. 

“Okay, okay. I’m going to fix this Eds, just hang on,” Richie says, smoothing a hand through Eddie’s hair once before standing. 

He trips over the rug in his haste to make it to the front door. He throws it open, intending to flag down the first stranger he sees, or start screaming until someone notices, or— 

His blood turns to ice in his veins. 

He’s alone. 

There’s no one on the streets. No cars parked on the sidewalk. He’s surrounded by tall buildings and fluttering trash and nothing else, the streets barren and dirty as if everyone in the city evaporated overnight. A stray cat streaks past him and out of sight, the only living creature he can see for miles. 

“No… no no no,” Richie says, stepping further into the chilly morning. The silence is oppressive. The air is filled with a malevolent energy he can feel under his skin, making the hair on his arms stand up. 

He fumbles with the phone in his pocket and dials Mike’s number. It rings endlessly; Mike doesn't pick up, and it doesn’t go to voicemail. 

“Shit,  _ shit.  _ Not you too Mikey, not you,” Richie mutters. He turns and goes back inside, slamming the door shut on the dead, haunted world outside. 

Eddie is still there, still prone on his floor. His eyes are no longer rolled back in his head but closed peacefully as if he’s sleeping, or—

“No, Eddie don’t you fucking dare,” Richie cries, falling to his knees next to Eddie again. “Don’t you dare die on me again you asshole.” 

He’s still breathing. Richie presses his ear to Eddie’s chest and lets out a broken cry when he hears Eddie’s heartbeat. 

He shakes it off, and dials Bill’s number next. It rings and rings endlessly just like with Mike. He tries Bev, and then Ben, but the same thing happens each time. His stomach is in his throat when he dials Stan, and this time someone picks up on the third ring. 

“Stan? Stan, are you there? It’s Richie— Richie Tozier, you might not remember me yet, but—”

_ Stanley can’t help you, Richie.  _

It’s the voice, but it’s changed. It's raspy and high and  _ so  _ like Pennywise he nearly vomits from pure terror. 

“Where is he?”

_ Where they all are, Richie. Where you will all be. Where do you think? _ __  
__  
Richie drops the phone. His back collides with the side of his couch when he falls. He slides down, and grips Eddie’s ankle with his free hand to feel that he’s still warm. He’s holding on so hard he can feel the blood pumping through Eddie’s foot in his fingertips. 

_ You know what I am, Richie. They’re mine now.  _

A flash of light, three impossibly bright orbs swirling in slow orbit behind his eyelids, and just like that he understands. He knows what he’s been fighting, what has kept him trapped in this endless loop, what has had Eddie in its grasp since the moment Pennywise was gone. 

_ Eater of worlds _ . The Deadlights, capital fucking D — they ran the fucking show. Somewhere deep down he always knew it, but they never let him understand until now — Pennywise was nothing, just a stupid fucking clown, a goddamn puppet. They fed off his hatred, his malevolence, amplified it, and now they’re feeding off Eddie and Richie. The beings that have had him trapped in this mindfuckery have had him in their grip since the cavern, since he looked into Pennywise’s gaping mouth and saw nothing but white and the inside of his skull, since everything he’d ever known had been threatened to be lost to the three rings of death squeezing the life out of him.  _ Eater of worlds.  _

“Fuck you,” Richie spits, and the voice cackles in his ear. He looks at Eddie, and tightens his hold on his ankle. “You can’t take him.” 

_ Oh, Richie. I already have him. And now it’s your turn. _

The apartment lights up. Richie shrinks against the couch, muscle memory reacting before he can, because he knows this light, this suffocating heat. He’s sweating before his sweat glands have processed the searing heat, panting before his lungs have noticed he can’t breathe. His head rings with a cacophony of sounds, screams and laughter and the beeping of machinery, and he closes his eyes, holding onto Eddie for dear fucking life. 

But that’s not right, is it? He’s not holding on for life anymore, they’re well beyond that by now. Richie’s been living with ghosts ever since the moment Eddie saved him at the expense of his own life. The world outside is proof enough — nothing that’s happened in the last sixty-odd lifetimes was real. It was nothing more than a waking nightmare, a hallucination designed to distract him, torture him into submission, to trick him into thinking he could save Eddie, to succumb while they fed endlessly. He holds onto Eddie because it’s the only thing he knows how to do: find Eddie, and never let go again. 

_ He won’t want you, Richie. He won’t stay, even if I let you live. You know this.  _

He knows. He’s watched Eddie reject him enough times now to know. He’s watched him choose Myra, choose a life that’s safer than Richie and the pathetic life he has to offer. He’s seen Eddie look at him in disgust enough times to know: Richie is not enough. He’s not what Eddie wants, and definitely not what he deserves. 

_ We can show you more  _ —  _ we can give you everything you want. All you have to do is give in… give in, Richie… give in…  _

Eddie’s ankle twitches in his grip. He looks down — Eddie is awake, brown eyes open wide and staring at him. 

“Rich—” 

The lights flare, and the clamor in his mind is deafening. His eyes slam shut, and he squeezes Eddie’s foot in alarm. 

“Close your eyes, Eddie!” Richie calls over the screeching — he wonders if Eddie can hear it too. 

Eddie touches his arm, then feels his way up to Richie’s face, and grips it tight between his hands. His forehead knocks against his and Richie cries out in pain; it doesn’t deter Eddie, who only presses closer. 

“Don’t listen, Rich,” Eddie says, his voice soft. Richie can hear it clearly though the ringing is becoming unbearable. “Keep your eyes closed, don’t fucking open them, okay? Don’t look, just stay here with me.” 

Richie nods, wincing when his eardrums nearly burst from the noise — the laughter has faded away, and all he can hear is screaming, furious and terrified at once. 

The light presses against his eyelids, iridescent and beautiful, gruesome and deadly. His skin burns, and his voice joins the millions screaming in his head. 

“Keep your eyes closed, Richie,” Eddie pleads, fingers digging into his scorching skin. 

He pushes at Eddie, because he’s on fire and Eddie is too close, surely he will burn too — but Eddie just clings tighter. Richie’s been screaming for so long he doesn’t even notice when he stops, until his voice catches and he chokes out Eddie’s name. 

“Eddie,” he croaks, “you can’t— don’t touch me.” 

“Shut up,” Eddie snaps, holding tighter. “Think about something else Richie. Like this isn’t happening, like it’s not real, okay?” 

Of course it’s not real, he thinks. But it never had to be; he burns every time Eddie is in the same room, every time Eddie touches him. He’s burned for so long he can’t believe this is what’s going to kill him, this bullshit nightmare inferno that shouldn’t be able to touch him.

As if it heard his thoughts, the dying creature burns brighter, because of course it’s dying; nothing else could put up a fight like a dying thing. Richie screams again, because he’s dying too, and this time it’s Eddie who sobs over his body. It’s Eddie who presses close, and swallows Richie’s scream with his mouth, who presses his lips to Richie’s like he can absorb his pain through the contact. 

“I’m right here, Richie,” Eddie tells him. His voice is tight with pain, and Richie aches to look, to make sure he’s okay, but Eddie’s fingers tighten as if he can hear Richie’s thoughts. “Keep your eyes closed, it’s almost over.”

How do you know? How the  _ fuck _ do you know?

“I just do. Hang on, Richie, hang on—”

Eddie’s voice is lost to the din as the roaring crescendos, and Richie is beyond screaming with it — he falls, and Eddie barely catches him, hands gripping the front of his t-shirt and holding him upright. His eyes are rolling back behind his closed eyelids but he holds onto consciousness for as long as he can, listens for Eddie’s voice telling him to hang on just a little longer, stay with me Rich, come on, don’t you  _ dare _ fucking pass out on me Richie—

The roaring stops as suddenly as it started; a high pitched wail shatters the windows, and the lenses of his glasses, and Richie’s back hits the floor when Eddie throws himself over him to protect him from the worst of the shards. When it settles they’re left with dead silence, and the light fades to the sweet darkness of his closed eyelids. 

“Rich, don’t move, you’re covered in glass,” Eddie tells him gently, but he sounds miles away through the ringing. It feels like he’s underwater, down to the sluggishness of his movements as he tries to cooperate with Eddie tugging him into a sitting position. “Keep your eyes closed.” 

Eddie brushes the glass off of his clothes, and lifts Richie’s arms to dump the shards onto the floor. He gently picks what doesn’t fall off, careful not to scratch Richie’s skin; it’s still tingling from being exposed to the fucking surface of the sun. 

“Okay, I’m gonna do your eyes now, don’t move.” 

Eddie pulls off his empty frames and gets to work painstakingly removing every piece of glass. He hisses to himself when he finishes, thumb brushing under Richie’s left eye. 

“There’s a cut under your eyebrow. I’ll go get disinfectant.”

“Don’t,” Richie says hoarsely. 

He reaches out and finds Eddie’s neck, cupping it between his hands to hold him there. 

“Eds,” Richie croaks, voice catching. He feels Eddie’s lips brush his cheek and shudders. 

“You can open your eyes, Rich.” 

“What’s the point. If I wasn’t already fucking blind I will be now.”

Eddie chuckles. Richie takes a deep breath, and does what Eddie says. 

Eddie is blurry, but it doesn’t matter. Richie would know him anywhere. He’s solid, and real, and when he leans closer so Richie can see him better Richie makes a noise that in any other circumstance would be embarrassing, but he can’t find it in him to care. 

“Hey Richie,” Eddie says, thumb brushing under his cut brow. It comes away bloody but Eddie doesn’t even flinch, he just continues to watch Richie serenely. 

“Hey Eds,” Richie says. His voice is fucking shot, and he probably only has a few more sentences left before it gives out completely, so he makes them count. “You know what all that screaming reminded me of?”

“What?” Eddie asks, without a hint of trepidation. 

It’s too easy. He almost feels guilty; this whole thing really has taken Eddie off his game. 

“Like… your mom, when we’d —”

Richie laughs when Eddie hits him in the stomach, and leans forward to press his head into Eddie’s chest. 

“What the  _ fuck _ just happened?” 

He feels Eddie’s sigh against the back of his neck, and listens again to the steady heartbeat under his ear. It’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard. 

“I have a theory, but I’m too fucking tired to talk about it.”

“Hmm. Have anything to do with the deadlights?” 

“Yeah,” Eddie says slowly. 

They stay there for a long time, Richie buried in Eddie’s chest and Eddie’s arms around his shoulders, until both of their backs start to protest. 

“C’mon. We need to get the rest of this glass off, and clean your cut,” Eddie says. He picks Richie’s head up and looks at the cut above Richie’s eyes critically, and while he’s distracted Richie leans forward and kisses him. 

Eddie kisses back, hands possessive in Richie’s hair. When they seperate, Eddie is looking at him with a knowing smile, like he’s seen the secrets of the universe. 

“I love you,” Eddie says softly. “You know that, right? That was real. Everything we saw and felt was real.” 

Richie nods; Eddie doesn't need to know about the doubt that still dwells, the surety he’d felt before when the deadlights told him Eddie would leave him. That’s Future Richie’s problem. He’s too choked up to say it back, but he presses another long kiss to Eddie’s lips and hopes he can feel it. 

Eddie carefully pulls them to their feet and leads Richie by the hand through the glass laden room to Richie’s bedroom. The damage appears to have been contained in the living room, and his floor is blessedly glass free. Eddie tugs him further into his bathroom and turns the shower on. 

Richie tries to help Eddie undress him, he really does, but his muscles feel like lead and his head is thick with cotton. Eddie doesn’t complain, just methodically unbuttons Richie’s fly and pulls his t-shirt over his head without fanfare. Richie doesn’t even come close to getting hard when Eddie undresses, which is truly a testament to the level of exhaustion he feels. 

The water is warm when he steps in, and at first the heat makes him flinch back, but Eddie gently strokes over his back until he relaxes. They shower close together, Richie swaying heavily and holding onto Eddie’s shoulders for support. Eddie washes his hair, and rinses any remaining glass off his skin with the showerhead. Richie kisses him once, but it’s a languid, appreciative kiss that goes nowhere. He buries his head in Eddie’s neck for a long time, nearly dozing off to the feel of Eddie tracing soft circles on his back until Eddie prods at him to get out. 

They dry off, and Richie finds a pair of boxers and one of his t-shirts for Eddie, throwing on his own with some difficulty as his limbs don’t want to cooperate. 

“Fucking  _ whatever, _ ” he snaps when he puts his head through the wrong hole for the third time. Eddie giggles, watching him from Richie’s bed, and that image alone is enough to send Richie down another internal spiral that he does not have the energy for right now. 

Richie climbs into bed and melts with how fucking good it feels. He’s barely settled onto his side when Eddie wriggles into his arms. He tangles their legs together, the gesture so familiar that Richie’s muscles respond without conscious thought. 

“It was real, Richie,” Eddie repeats sleepily, fingers tracing patterns on Richie’s chest. “It’ll always be you...”

He trails off quietly, sleep starting to pull him under. Richie swallows, chokes out a weak sob, and Eddie’s fingers tighten in his shirt. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Eddie asks quietly, warm breath fanning across Richie’s cheeks. 

“Ask me in twenty-seven years,” Richie answers with a grin. 

Eddie smiles, sleepy and soft, and it takes his breath away. His eyes look as heavy as Richie's feel. Eddie presses closer, and Richie folds him under his chin and stays awake for as long as he can, until Eddie is still and his breaths are even. 

“Don’t forget me, Eddie,” Richie whispers, and succumbs at last to sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bit of a short update this time! the next update will conclude the fic, however there is also an epilogue as well. i'm toying with the idea of posting the last few chapters one at a time to draw it out a little, because i definitely said this would last until july and that was a lie because i can't do math lmao. if you have any kind of preference let me know :) 
> 
> HUGE shoutout to gene and their massive brain. [this headcanon](https://eurythmix.tumblr.com/post/190884649118/please-hit-us-with-that-headcanon-about-the-losers) about the deadlights being time blew my mind and helped me to pin down how i wanted this fic to resolve. thank you gene for being so fucking smart i love you <3
> 
> happy to answer any questions on tumblr or twitter, i also have a [curious cat](https://curiouscat.qa/edskaspbraking) now 
> 
> art for this update actually goes with the last update - you can find it [here](https://www.deviantart.com/the-snuffbox/art/My-whole-life-845376939)
> 
> next update on tuesday!


	14. Chapter 14

_“And I’d choose you; in a hundred lifetimes, in a hundred worlds, in any version of reality, I’d find you and I’d choose you.”_

_-Kiersten White_

* * *

  
  


“Beverly. Beverly, wake up.” 

Bev blinks her eyes open slowly. The doctor that’s been treating them since Neibolt — _Coleman,_ she’s pretty sure, Nicholas Coleman — is hovering over her, sharp eyes tracking over her face. 

“There you are. Miss Marsh, do you know what year it is?” 

“Uh… 2016,” Bev answers, blinking rapidly. 

She hears him before she sees him. Ben is just out of sight, considerate enough to give the doctor room to work, and he lets out a loud sigh of relief. 

“Good. And do you know where you are?” 

“Um. Derry. The hospital,” she responds, unsure of how specific she needs to be. 

“Excellent. I’m going to check your pupils now, okay? Follow the light.” 

Her heart races when the light flares in her eyes; she pinches her arm to remind herself she’s okay. This isn’t the same. This isn’t _them._

She does as the doctor says, and releases a breath when the light is out of her face. She sits up and remains silent while he gently feels her head for any contusions. She catches Ben’s eye over his shoulder and offers a shaky smile that he returns, eyebrows pinched and worried. 

“Okay. Everything looks good, your vitals are fine. Do you know what happened?” Dr. Coleman asks. 

“I think I just… fainted,” she says evasively. “This happens sometimes, I’m kind of prone to fainting spells.”   
  
She catches Ben raising his eyebrows at her lie and keeps her gaze locked firmly on Dr. Coleman’s concerned face. 

“Well, I think we should still run a few tests, to be safe.” 

“No, I— really, doctor, I’m okay,” Bev says. “I don’t think that’s necessary, I was only out for a few minutes right?” 

“About ten,” he answers, mouth pursed. “That’s long enough to be cause for some concern.” 

“I think I’m just… exhausted from everything that happened with— the building collapse,” she says, hoping she remembered the right lie. “And I’m worried about my friends. I think that’s all it is, really.” 

Dr. Coleman takes a deep breath and intensely clinical look. “Okay. If you're sure. But if you start to have a headache, especially a pounding one, or experience any confusion or dizziness, you find me ASAP.” 

“Yes, I will, thank you,” Bev says gratefully. 

Dr. Coleman nods at them both one final time and leaves the room. Ben is at her side instantly, hands on her face, pressing a kiss to her forehead. 

“Bev, what the hell?” he asks in a low voice, dropping down to sit on the edge of the bed. 

“Where are the others?” she asks urgently. 

Ben looks agog for a second. He blinks and stutters, “Uh— with Richie, probably, I don’t— Bev what _happened?_ Stan said you just collapsed, what—” 

“We need to find them,” she says. She climbs out of the hospital bed and reaches for Ben; he takes her hand without question, despite the clear questions in his eyes. “I’ll explain I promise, we just need to get to them.” 

“Bev—”   
  
“I know what happened to Richie.” 

  
  


**↣↢**

  
  


The five of them huddle around Richie’s bed, quietly shocked, each of them staring at Richie’s peaceful face. The only sound in the room is the steady beep of his heart rate monitor, each one reverberating like a gunshot in the silence. 

“The deadlights…” Stan repeats hollowly. His eyes look sunken, haunted. A quick glance around the room shows he’s not the only one. 

“They controlled It,” Beverly says. “I don’t know how I didn’t see it all those years ago… Pennywise was just a puppet. Just something for them to feed off of and channel their power through.” 

“But what does it mean for Richie now?” Mike asks. “And Eddie?” 

“I don’t know,” Bev says. “I didn’t see a lot, I just know Richie is still trapped in their grasp somehow.” 

“Tell us again,” Bill asks. 

Bev takes a shaky breath; Ben’s hand tightens around hers. “It was quick, and it’s already kind of… slipping away. But I saw Eddie… with light coming from his eyes, and mouth, and he— _they —_ had Richie trapped in their light, just like in the cavern.” 

She shudders, seeing it clearly when she closes her eyes. All three of them had been suspended, caught in Eddie’s light, and she was momentarily caught in his grip the same as Richie. But she felt their presence, remembered the emptiness in the searing heat, and knew Eddie was just as trapped as they were. 

“So… they’ve, what, possessed Eddie?” Ben guesses. “The way they possessed Pennywise?”

“Wh-why Eddie though?” Bill asks. “Why not any of the rest of us?” 

“Because Eddie was unconscious,” Mike explains. “That has to be it. He couldn’t fight them off in the state he was in, he was an easy target. We weakened them when we killed Pennywise, and they found the first living thing they could to survive. One that wouldn’t have means to resist. That’s the only explanation that makes sense.” 

“None of this makes _sense,”_ Stan argues. He glances at Mike apologetically though before returning his attention to Richie. 

“They must have,” Bev agrees. “Richie was the last one to see them, before we killed Pennywise, so he’s still linked to them too. They must have… taken control of Eddie while he— before we got back to him.” 

“How do we get them out?” asks Bill. “How the f-f-fuck do we fix this?” 

“I don’t think we can,” Bev says sadly, tears in her eyes. “It’s been nearly thirty years since they had me trapped, I was able to fight my way out pretty easily. But Richie was just two days ago, he might not—” 

She pauses, presses her hand to her mouth. Ben rubs her back. Stan’s face is stony, while Bill and Mike’s twist in grief. 

“We almost got ourselves killed destroying Pennywise,” Bev continues softly with tears in her eyes. “I don’t know that the five of us are strong enough on our own.” 

“We have to do _something_ ,” Mike says with quiet ferocity. “I’ll do some research, figure out what these things even _are,_ that’ll give us a start.” 

“And what about them?” Stan asks darkly. “Every second they’re here, their bodies are dying. What if they never wake up? What if Eddie—” 

He can’t finish the thought, but they know how it ends all the same. 

“He still has a fucking hole in his chest. What if the deadlights are the only thing keeping him alive?” Stan asks. “What if we get rid of them and he—” 

“We don’t have a choice,” Bev says. “He wouldn’t want to live like that. Neither would Richie. If we can kill them, if we can free Richie and Eddie, we have to try.” 

Stan looks anguished, but she’s right. The rest of them know it too. 

“Okay. Okay, we need to hurry. I’ll head to the library now,” Mike says, standing up. He reaches down to squeeze Richie’s wrist. 

“I’ll g-go too,” Bill declares. 

“Us too. The more people looking, the faster we’ll find something,” Ben says, tugging Bev to her feet.

“I’ll stay with Richie,” Stan says. “Someone needs to be here if he wakes up. Call me if you find something.” 

“We will. Call if anything changes here,” Mike says. 

They all look at Richie again. Loud, brash, indestructible Richie, the glue that held them all together. Bev brushes a hand through Richie’s hair; the others hold his hand or squeeze his ankle before leaving with wordless determination to save him. 

Once they’re alone, Stan sighs and lets his forehead fall forward, right on Richie’s bicep. He stays there for a long time, listening to the incessant beeping, wishing his own heart would slow enough to keep pace with Richie’s. 

“You need to wake up Richie,” Stan says quietly without lifting his head. “I don’t know what to do, I don’t— I don’t even know how I’m _here._ ”

Stan lifts his head. He’s never seen Richie so still. Even at sleepovers when they were kids he was restless, shifting and kicking and muttering in his sleep, like he could never truly slow down enough to just stop, to rest. Seeing him like this is unnatural, unsettling. 

“You need to wake up. I want to tell you about Patty,” Stan says, voice cracking on her name. “I don’t remember telling you about her before. She’d… she’d love you, you know, and you two would drive me crazy.” 

A tear slides down his cheek. He hasn’t heard Patty’s voice in days, feels her absence like a knife between his ribs. Sharp, painful, like he can’t breathe. She’d know what to do if she were here. She always does. 

“I don’t know what you’re fighting Rich, but we’re gonna do everything we can to get you out,” Stan promises, wiping at his cheek. “I just got you back, I’m not losing you again. I need you to hang on until then, okay? Keep beating the shit out of it. Kill that fucking clown, remember?”

His voice breaks again, and he drops his head to rest next to Richie’s arm and lets the tears fall. He falls asleep that way, Richie’s arm pressed to his ear, elbow bent at a funny angle to hold onto Richie’s hand. 

**↣↢**

Two hours later, exactly twenty-four since he first collapsed, Richie wakes up. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> stan and richie's friendship is so important to me writing this part made me so teary


	15. Chapter 15

“ _Eddie!_ ” 

Stan wakes to Richie’s flailing arm smacking him in the face. Richie is wide-eyed and terrified, heart monitor beeping wildly as he tries to untangle himself from the hospital sheets. Stan stands and braces him with a hand on each shoulder.

“Richie, hey, Rich, calm down. Holy— fuck, calm the _fuck_ down Richie, come on.” 

“Eddie— where’s Eddie? _Where’s Eddie?_ ” 

Richie flails in Stan’s grasp, looking around wildly. He doesn’t even seem to be seeing anything at all, like his vision is still coated with whatever had him trapped, half crazed until he gets a good look at who’s holding him down. 

Richie sucks in sharp breath and finally he stops struggling, eyes wide in disbelief. 

“Stan?” he whispers incredulously, like if he says it too loudly Stan will disappear. 

“Yeah, it’s me.” 

Richie chokes, throwing off Stan’s hands to throw his arms around him. Stan hugs him back, nearly in tears again from the relief that Richie knows who he is, that he’s _awake._

“Am I dead?” Richie asks into his shoulder. 

“No, but you might be _deaf_ ,” Stan says drily. “Do you not hear the monitors going crazy?” 

They pull apart, and Stan points out the machinery. Richie looks at it uncomprehendingly for a moment, tension still visible in his shoulders. 

“See? Proof of a heartbeat. A hundred and twenty-two BPM dude, you have to calm down.” 

Richie looks at him, and Stan doesn’t think he’ll ever forget his expression for as long as he lives. He looks _haunted_ , desperate and terrified in a way he’s never seen etched on Richie’s features. 

“Richie, what’s—” 

“Where’s Eddie?” Richie asks hoarsely. He tries again to untangle himself and Stan stops him, but Richie resists, pushing Stan’s hands away as fast as he can grab hold of Richie’s shoulders. 

“Eddie’s still in the ICU,” Stan tells him. “Do you remember what happened yesterday?” 

“I have to see him,” Richie says, ignoring the question. “Let go, Stan.”  
  
“Richie we need to get a doctor in to see you first, you’ve been unconscious since last night.” 

“It doesn’t _matter_. I need to see Eddie. Where the fuck are my glasses?” 

Stan plucks them off the end table and hands them over. Richie shoves them on his face and manages to get out from under the blankets, and Stan winces when he yanks his own IV out. He unclasps the blood pressure cuff and pulls off all the electrodes on his chest.

“Okay, well now someone is definitely going to be coming—”

Right on cue, a nurse rushes into the room. Richie barely spares her a glance as he struggles with the final electrode. 

“Sir, you can’t do that, we need to monitor you until Dr. Coleman—”

“I’m _fine._ I need to get out of here.” 

“Sir—”  
  
“No, I know my rights. You can’t keep me here.” 

“Jesus Richie,” Stan says with a laugh. “You’re in a hospital, not the police station.” 

“It’d be best if you let Dr. Coleman evaluate you—” 

“Fine, he can evaluate me later,” Richie snaps. “But right now I need to see him.” 

“Who?” the nurse asks, hands on her hips. 

“Eddie Kaspbrak.”  
  
Her face changes. “Sir I’m afraid you can’t, he’s still in critical condition. Not even immediate family are allowed at the moment.” 

Richie sucks in a breath, and Stan can see the rage simmering in his eyes. He steps forward to put a mitigating hand on his chest, and addresses the nurse before Richie explodes on her. 

“Could you get Dr. Coleman in here right now? Please? I’ll get him back in bed.”  
  
“Stan—”  
  
“Shut up, Richie,” Stan snaps. 

She looks between them, Richie upright and furious, held in place with nothing but Stan’s hand, and nods. 

“I’ll find him right away,” she says, and disappears. 

“Stan, let go of me,” Richie growls. 

“You’re just as stupid as you always were, you know that?” Stan says. 

He releases Richie and opens the closet door, searching for something while Richie gapes at his back. 

“What are you doing?”  
  
“Looking for your clothes, dumbass. No one wants to see your ass hanging out while you run around the hospital.” 

He doesn't look at Richie as he says it. He finds the bag, a duffel of clean clothes for all of them that Ben had brought from the Townhouse. He digs through and tosses different articles as he finds them, not even sure what is Richie’s and what is Bill’s, or Ben’s or his. 

“Get dressed,” Stan says, Richie looking at him with his mouth open in a tiny ‘o’. “I’ll tell them you’re sick in the bathroom when they come to check.” 

Richie stares at him for a long moment and smiles, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. 

“God I missed you, Stan the Man,” Richie breathes. 

“I know,” Stan says dryly, smiling as well. “Missed you too. Now hurry up.” 

Richie swallows and nods, hastily throwing on the jeans and t-shirt Stan found him. They fit well enough. Once he’s done Stan checks the hallway for him, Richie hovering impatiently at his back. 

“Okay. Go. I’m gonna call the others and tell them you’re awake, okay?” 

“I— okay. Thanks Staniel,” Richie says in his ear, throwing his arms around Stan’s middle for a quick hug from behind before he darts around him into the hallway, creeping past the nurses station. Stan watches him round the corner out of sight and sighs, picking up his phone. 

**↣↢**

They arrive ten minutes later to find Stan reclining in Richie’s now empty bed. 

“Where is he?” Bev asks when they arrive. 

“Where do you think?” Stan answers with a raised eyebrow. 

“Eddie,” Ben answers. “They let him in?” 

“Not exactly,” Stan says evasively. “If anyone asks, Richie woke up, felt very ill, and has been in the bathroom ever since.” 

Mike winces. “They bought that?” 

“They have so far,” Stan says with a shrug. 

“How was he when he w-woke up?” Bill asks. 

Stan’s grin disappears. “Frantic. He— I’ve never seen him like that, except for when he beat the shit out It with a baseball bat, maybe. He looked like he would do the same to anyone that kept him from Eddie.” 

“Shit,” Ben says under his breath. 

It’s quiet for a few moments, the five of them exchanging uneasy looks. 

“Did you guys find anything?” Stan finally asks, unable to wait any longer. 

A beat. “Did we find what?” Mike says. 

“You know. Did you find anything helpful at the library?” 

Bill and Mike exchange a confused look. Stan looks at Bev, who’s frowning to herself much like the rest of them, mouth parted and eyebrows creased. 

“I… don’t know,” Bev says slowly. 

There’s about ten seconds where Stan feels the cold grip of fear and unease curling in his gut before it disappears, evaporated as quickly as rain on hot asphalt. And all at once, the clouds clear and he can’t remember what he was supposed to be feeling uneasy about at all. 

**↣↢**   
  


Eddie is still. 

No one saw him sneak into his room. The ICU was nearly empty, only one nurse on the floor he had to avoid. He slipped in while she was attending another patient, and fell to his knees the moment he saw Eddie. 

There’s so many wires attached to him. Richie couldn’t begin to find where they begin or end. He has a tube down his throat, and his chest is wrapped tightly in white bandages underneath his gown. Richie is terrified to touch him. Someone cleaned him up while he was unconscious, but he still has to wash his hands five times before he feels brave enough to touch his hand, Eddie’s voice in his head the entire time. He bursts into tears the moment he feels his skin, and falls forward to press his lips to his knuckles over and over again. 

No one disturbs them. Eddie’s monitors beep steadily, and Richie lays his head next to Eddie’s hand and watches the rise and fall of his chest as the machine breathes for him. He holds onto Eddie’s hand like a lifeline. 

“I still remember,” Richie says softly in the silence. 

It’s been an hour, maybe two. He doesn’t know or care. It’s the first thing he’s said since he walked in and fell to his knees, gasping Eddie’s name with a broken cry. 

“I still remember,” Richie repeats, louder now that he’s found his voice. He doesn’t pick his head up, watches Eddie’s face from somewhere near his elbow, glasses pressing into his temple. “But it’s fading, Eds. I can feel it fading and I can’t stop it. I remember all of them. Fiji, New York, LA, Derry… I remember showing up at your dorm. I remember the bar, your wedding, kissing you beneath the fireworks — everything.” 

He fights to keep his eyes open, because every time they close he loses more. He’s already forgotten the way Eddie looked at twenty, and the low light of the bar reflected in his eyes, the way his dimples looked from up close before he kissed him. He blinks, and he forgets the way Eddie stood out in his purple button up, as if all the spotlights were aimed at him. Tears well in his eyes when he loses the breathless way Eddie told him he loved him the first time. 

“I can’t stop it,” Richie says again. He can hear the way his own voice is cracking, and he’s been asleep for so long but his eyes still feel heavy, weighed down with the memories of a thousand lifetimes. 

“I love you,” he says. “So fucking much. Please don’t forget me, Eds.” 

He sleeps, and dreams of turtles. 


	16. Chapter 16

Somehow, the days pass. The world inevitably turns on, though for Richie it’s been reduced to four walls within Derry General Hospital. 

Richie wakes the next morning to a resigned sigh. There’s a nasty crick in his neck, and when he slowly looks up he sees a vaguely familiar man in a white coat looking down at him with what can only be described as exasperation. 

“Morning, doc,” Richie says, squinting in the harsh morning light. Dr. Coleman only shakes his head and manhandles him out of the way to attend to Eddie. 

In the days that follow, Richie only leaves Eddie’s room to use the en-suite bathroom and for their informal meetings of the Losers Club that happen every morning at eight o’clock sharp outside of Eddie’s room. They still won’t let more than one person in to see Eddie at a time, and none of them begrudge Richie for monopolizing that position for now. Bev brings him food, and then when it becomes obvious he’s not going to leave the hospital, a toothbrush and deodorant and clean clothes. In exchange he gives them bone crushing hugs and detailed accounts of Eddie’s every finger twitch and eyelid flutter. 

He doesn’t remember anything beyond passing out that first night at the hospital — none of them do. He’d woken up at Eddie’s bedside, and Eddie was still breathing, and he loves him. That’s all he knows, and all he needs to know. 

He doesn’t have the space or energy to compartmentalize his feelings given the circumstances, and so he doesn’t. He sits at Eddie’s side and watches him breathe and thinks of nothing but how in love with him he is, how in love with him he’s always been, making promise after promise to himself to be brave. _If Eddie can be brave enough to survive this, you can be brave too._

**↣↢**

And thus: 

“I’m in love with him,” Richie blurts one morning. 

He sees Bill pause out of the corner of his eye, hand frozen from where it’s extended towards Stan with his coffee. The crinkling from the bag of donut holes Ben brought stops, and when Richie’s brain catches up with his mouth he looks up at the rest of them, waiting. 

“And I’m gay,” he adds, hands clenched belatedly around the worn green fabric of the chair he’s sitting in. “In case that wasn’t, you know, clear.” 

They’re in the fancy waiting room today, the one reserved for families of critical patients. It’s a good day when it’s empty, and they take advantage of it when they can rather than block the hallway by huddling outside Eddie’s door.

Stan, the closest to him at his right, reaches over and squeezes his knee. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

“Not even a little bit,” Richie answers honestly, and they all laugh. 

“We love you,” Bev tells him, getting out of her chair to kiss his cheek. 

“I just have one question,” Bill says, and Richie tenses automatically. “Does this mean you’ll s-stop making stupid jokes about fucking our mothers?” 

It startles a laugh out of Richie, the first one in nearly a week. And it’s not even funny, but he laughs until he can’t breathe, until all six of them are nearly in tears from it. 

“Not on your life, Big Bill,” Richie manages when he’s calmed down, wiping tears from his eyes and nearly suffocating again from the overwhelming rush of affection he feels towards these losers. 

Two days after that, Bev confides in him that Eddie talked to her about leaving his wife. 

“What? _When?_ ” Richie asks in a low voice, angling himself so the others gathered in the waiting room can't hear him. He feels winded, like Bev just sucker punched him. 

“After Bowers stabbed him,” Bev says. “I think it was the adrenaline, he was doing that Eddie thing where he talks so fast you can barely understand him.” 

Richie smiles, and with another kick to the chest, thinks that if he ever gets to hear Eddie rant like that again he might actually die from happiness. 

Bev smiles too. “Anyway, it was really annoying because I was trying to patch his cheek up and he wouldn’t stop talking, but he told me how he’s unhappy, and he has been for a long time but that he was finally ‘awake’, and he almost called her right then and there, bleeding cheek and all.”

“Holy shit,” Richie breathes. 

“And that was before I’d even told him I was leaving Tom.” 

“Holy _shit_ ,” Richie repeats with feeling. He takes Bev’s hands and holds them tight. “Bev, I’m so fucking selfish, I’m— are you okay? Have you told him?” 

“Sweetie, it’s okay,” Bev says, pulling a hand free to cup his face. “You’re not selfish, Eddie is what matters right now. Tom is the last thing on my mind, trust me.” 

“But still,” Richie pushes. “I want to know.” 

“And I want to tell you,” she says. “First, we get Eddie back.” 

**↣↢**

Bev calls Myra. Richie resolutely does not listen to the conversation. 

By some miracle Myra doesn’t immediately storm the hospital, nor call the cops on them. Bev talks to her in low, calm tones and somehow convinces her it’s best not to do anything until Eddie wakes up. He has no idea how she can stand not being at Eddie’s bedside, but he doesn’t question it too much— he’s not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, after all. He does give Bev an extra long hug and the last bite of his chocolate eclair though. 

**↣↢**   
  


He doesn’t really keep track of what day it is anymore, but somewhere around the three week mark, Dr. Coleman deems Eddie well enough for three visitors at a time. 

Richie steps out, graciously in his mind, and lets Bill, Stan, and Mike take the first visit. Bev holds his hand while his leg shakes anxiously. 

“Honey, it’s alright,” Bev says soothingly. “You’ll be back in there in a little bit.” 

“What if he wakes up?” Richie says. “What if he wakes up and the first thing he sees is Bill’s stupid handsome face and he like, imprints on him like a baby bird?” 

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” Ben offers. 

“I will bet you a hundred dollars you’re the first person he asks for, anyway,” Bev says. 

He doesn’t really have a response to that. He tries several, but never gets past choking out the first synonym, and goes back to anxious knee jiggling to combat Bev’s smug smile. 

They switch ten minutes later. Richie hovers in the corner to give Ben and Bev their time to talk to Eddie, Bev kissing his forehead and cheek while all three of them cry. 

“It’s not the same without you, Eddie,” Beverly tells Eddie, and Richie’s throat constricts. Ben wipes at his eyes beside her. “It’s not The Losers Club without you. We love you so much.”

Richie cries into Eddie’s forearm for an hour after they leave. 

**↣↢**

Richie’s been staring uncomprehendingly at Dr. Coleman for at least five minutes. He really hopes the others have been paying attention. 

It’s not his fault. He heard the words “internal bleeding has resolved”, “lungs and ribs are almost completely healed”, and “can take him off the ventilator soon” and felt faint. He collapsed into the chair and just stared, Mike’s hand on his shoulder the only thing grounding him to this plane. 

Eddie’s _okay_. He’s nearly healed, nearly to the point where he can breathe on his own. Richie’s not sure if he wants to cry or throw up. 

He doesn’t get the chance to dwell on it. Mike taps his shoulder and he tunes back in just as Dr. Coleman is saying, “—cautious optimism. There’s still a lot we don’t know about his brain function right now. Our scans are promising, and there’s no signs of atrophy, but we don’t know when he will wake up. And there is still the possibility that he will not.” 

“B-but if he does, he’ll be okay?” Bill asks. 

“It looks that way,” Dr. Coleman says with a smile. “He’ll need physical therapy and some lifestyle adaptations, but with time and patience, he’ll be fine.” 

Richie makes some sort of startled whimpering sound. He closes his eyes and leans forward to catch his head in his hands, breathing deep and trying not to sob. 

“Thank you doctor, for everything,” Ben says sincerely, the sentiment echoing around before Dr. Coleman excuses himself. Richie is still trying not to fall apart, doesn’t even manage a wave. 

“I’m giving that man my house when this is over,” Richie croaks into his knees. “My house, and my entire savings account, my retirement, fucking everything I own — it’s all his now.” 

He picks his head up when the others laugh shakily, and they crowd around him to engulf him in a group hug. They stay there for a long time, arms around each other outside Eddie’s hospital room, seven hearts beating as one.

  
**↣↢**

They remove Eddie’s breathing tube four days later. 

Then, after one week of breathing on his own, Eddie wakes up. 

  
  



	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for mild medical talk and certainly some medical inaccuracies. we're just gonna put a lot of that on the turtle .

Richie almost misses it. He’s at the foot of Eddie’s bed, preparing to shower in the en suite bathroom before curling onto the godawful couch that folds into the world’s most pathetic excuse for a bed. He’s just gathered his sweats that have been doubling as pajamas into a ball and opened the door when he hears it. 

“Richie?” 

It’s hoarse, and weak, a ghost of a voice, but it’s unmistakably Eddie’s. 

Richie has done nothing but imagine this moment for _weeks_ , weeks that felt like goddamn years, and not a single one of his imaginings featured him freezing in place, all of his organs shutting down in an instant, like Eddie’s voice awoke some sort of sleeper agent whose mission was to turn him to stone. 

“Rich?” 

It’s wheezy this time, so reminiscent of twelve year old Eddie having an asthma attack that it kicks his body back into action. He turns, and there he is. 

Eddie Kaspbrak is awake.

Richie sucks in a breath and trips his way to Eddie’s bed, his brain overstimulated, misfiring too much for his limbs to work properly. 

“Eddie,” he gasps when he reaches him, and it takes everything he has not to just fall on Eddie’s body and fit himself into the empty spaces until there’s nothing separating them. 

Eddie is reaching for him, though, and that alone is enough to trigger the hysteria he’s fighting. He takes the hand Eddie offers and holds it close, keeping it close to his chest where it belongs. 

He sits and waits patiently while Eddie blinks awake, squinting around the room. He finds Richie’s eyes again and the panic is clear in his face. 

“You’re okay, Eds, you’re in the hospital,” Richie tells him. He holds Eddie’s hand in one of his and smooths circles over the top of it with the other, and presses his lips briefly to his knuckles when Eddie isn’t paying attention. 

“Richie,” Eddie rasps, and it’s painful to hear. 

“Shhh, Eddie, don’t,” Richie shushes him. “You’ve had a tube down your throat for weeks, let me get you some water—” 

“Don’t,” Eddie interrupts. 

Eddie pulls Richie closer. His eyes are glassy but determined, the look in his eyes reminding Richie of Neibolt, the deathly serious way he’d said, “Rich, I gotta tell you something.” 

“What is it, Eddie?” Richie asks softly. “What do you need?” 

“Richie, I didn’t forget,” Eddie whispers. “I didn’t forget you.” 

Something stirs in the recesses of Richie’s mind, sending a zip of electricity down his spine, but it’s gone again when Eddie tugs, pulling Richie’s hand closer until he can press his lips to Richie’s palm. 

“Eddie,” Richie breathes, frozen again, heart pounding so hard he can see his pulse jump in his wrist. 

Eddie’s strength gives out and he lowers their hands, keeping them joined against his chest, barely even wincing when they fall on his bandages. His eyes flutter, and the last thing he says before he falls asleep is, “I didn’t forget, Rich. I love you.” 

**↣↢**

  
  


Bev greets him with a groan when she picks up the phone. “Richie, it’s like two in the morning, what—” 

“Eddie told me he loved me,” Richie interrupts. 

“He’s _awake_?” Bev squawks. “What the hell Trashmouth, lead with that!” 

There’s rustling on her end, and the soft sounds of her waking Ben. 

“Have you called the others?” Bev asks. 

“What, no— he fell back asleep, like, immediately, but he said he _loved_ me, Bev,” Richie repeats emphatically. 

“Richie,” Bev sighs. “We’ll talk about this when I get there, okay? I have to get dressed.” 

“He said he— he didn’t forget me,” Richie blusters on, because if he doesn’t get it out he might scream. His hands haven’t stopped shaking for an hour as it is. 

That seems to give her pause. There’s a tense silence before she says, “What does that mean?” 

“I don’t _know_ ,” Richie replies. “He barely seemed to know where he was, or _who_ he was, but he said that like three fucking times.” 

“Richie, I— I don’t know,” Bev says softly. He hears Ben murmur in the background, and she must respond to him nonverbally because it’s quiet for a second. “Honey, it’s late, and you’re exhausted, just. Try not to obsess over it, okay? Until you can talk to him again.” 

“Bev, have you actually _met_ me?” 

“I know, sweetie, but I don’t have an answer for you. You’ll just have to wait until he’s up again.” 

Richie groans. “But what do I _say_ if he… if he.” 

“You know the answer to that, Rich,” Bev says quietly, and he has to pull the phone away from his ear for a moment to silently scream into his fist. 

“Remind me why I called you again.” 

“So I can tell you what you already know. And because Eddie is _awake_ , what the fuck,” she emphasizes. “We’re getting in the car now, I’ll see you in a bit.” 

Richie hangs up just as Dr. Coleman finishes up and emerges from Eddie’s room. 

“He’s stable. He’ll probably be in and out for a while, but physically everything looks great,” he says, scribbling something on Eddie’s chart. God, Richie could kiss him. 

“That’s… fuck, that’s great,” Richie says, running a hand through his hair for the millionth time. 

Dr. Coleman eyes him, dark brown eyes as penetrating as Eddie’s sometimes. “How long was he awake?” 

“Not long. A few minutes, max.” 

“And he knew who you were? Without any coaxing?” 

Richie nods, heart taking up a permanent residence in his throat by now. “Yeah, my uh, my name was the first thing he said.” 

Dr. Coleman nods, giving nothing away in his expression. “That’s good. Really good. Have the nurses buzz me when he wakes again, okay?” 

He clasps Richie’s shoulders and leaves. 

Ten minutes later, five sleepy looking faces peer into Eddie’s room. It’s not strictly visiting hours, given that it’s nearly three in the morning, but the six of them have more or less been given a free pass by all the employees of the critical care division by now. 

Eddie doesn’t wake up again while they’re there, but it doesn’t matter. The knowledge that he did, however briefly, is enough to change the mood in the room entirely. Bev sits in Richie’s lap and strokes his hair while Bill, Mike, and Stan try to recall the details of their graduation party, everyone piping in with details about who puked where. He can’t remember how they got on the subject, and doesn’t care. He hasn’t laughed like this since their first night back in Derry. Ben remembers Richie being dared to kiss Bev, because of course he does, and confesses how pissed he was that he wasn’t issued the dare. Bev throws her head back, laughing silently when Richie recounts the terrible kiss, all teeth and bumped noses. 

When Eddie wakes again it’s hours later, grey early morning light peeking into through the windows, illuminating the lump of sleeping bodies around the room. Ben and Bev are curled together on the terrible sofa, Bill and Mike reclined in chairs with their feet propped on each other’s armrests. Richie is hunched over Eddie’s bed with his head pillowed in his arms, Stan leaning against his shoulder and snoring in his ear. 

Richie stirs just as Eddie starts to, as though he has a sixth sense for it. He picks his head up to find Eddie smiling softly at him, an image he will remember until he’s six feet under, and even then he thinks he’ll remember this. The lovelorn way his heart flips in his chest, the soft light and Eddie’s bedhead and that _smile,_ the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. That will stay with him until he is nothing but dust in the earth. 

“Fucking losers,” Eddie croaks fondly. 

  
**↣↢**

Eddie doesn’t remember. Or, if he does, he’s not sharing with the class. 

To be fair, Richie barely gets a moment alone with him from that minute on. The others stirred the second Eddie spoke, and bombarded him with hugs and forehead and cheek kisses to the point that his heart rate monitor went berserk. They all got told off by Ginny, one of Eddie’s nurses, and were ushered out of the room despite Eddie’s protests. 

Eddie is in and out of it over the ensuing week, true to Dr. Coleman’s prediction. He gives the six of them permission to visit at the same time, so long as they don’t “get too rowdy”, in his words. As such, they barely leave his side but to sleep and get coffee or food. Richie stays overnight, same as he has every night since Neibolt, but he’s not alone. Stan also stays most nights, or Bill or Mike, and Richie never gets more than a minute alone with him. 

His moment sneaks up on him. For days he waits, barely keeping himself from blurting the question every time Eddie so much as glances in his direction. He hardly knows what he’d even ask, though it would probably be some iteration of a fourth grade love note. “Do you _like_ like me, check yes no or maybe.” In his most desperate moments he considers writing an adult version of that exact note, when it’s been eating him alive and Bill just won’t shut the fuck up about his ideas for his next book. 

He and Bev are sitting with Eddie after his physical therapy session, listening to him curse out his therapist in the most colorful way imaginable. Eddie is flushed, the most color Richie’s seen on his cheeks in nearly two months, and it’s impossible to look away from. 

“—fucking inhumane, I mean Jesus Christ I had a fucking _claw_ in my chest, and you think fifty steps is reasonable literally one _week_ after waking up from a coma? I should ask where she went to school, see if they’re even accredited, I wouldn’t put it past Derry General to hire some quack off the side of the road with a fake degree—” 

He can feel the stupid grin on his face as well as Bev looking at him, but he doesn’t care. The fact that Eddie has gone on this long without taking a breath speaks for itself in terms of his recovery. 

He only pauses for breath when Bev’s phone starts ringing. Her expression turns stony when she looks at the caller ID. 

“Shit. My lawyer, I’m sorry, I gotta take this,” she apologizes, breezing out of the room and leaving them alone for the first time since Eddie woke up. 

“Ugh,” Eddie groans when she leaves, head flopping back onto his pillows. “I need to call Myra.” 

The bottom falls out from Richie’s stomach. So much for that. 

“Yeah? I’m surprised she’s not here now that you’re conscious, even with the whole, you know. Divorce... thing.” 

Eddie shrugs without lifting his head. “I’m not. We’re not like… I mean, she’s definitely overprotective and shit but it’s not cause she really… never mind.” 

Richie doesn’t push it. He’s practically salivating to know more, to hear what she said when Eddie told her he wanted a divorce a few days ago, but Eddie hadn’t wanted to talk about it and he’s trying to respect that. 

He changes the subject before he loses his nerve and misses another opportunity. “Hey, Eds, do you… do you remember what you said to me the first time you woke up?” 

Eddie frowns, and picks his head up to look at Richie. “When I called you a bunch of fucking losers?” 

“Again, pot meet kettle, dude,” Richie says, making Eddie grin. “No, you woke up once before that… do you remember?” 

_Don’t forget about me, Eds._

The thought disappears the moment he thinks it. 

Eddie looks at him for a long time, and Richie resists the urge to smooth the line between his eyebrows with his thumb. 

“No,” Eddie says eventually. “I— what did I say?” 

Richie takes a breath, then another, clenching and flexing his fingers anxiously. “You kept saying… that you didn’t forget me. You said it a bunch of times, and it kind of felt like you were trying to tell me something.” 

A muscle ticks in Eddie’s jaw. “Tell you what?” 

“Um…” Richie hums, stalling. _Coward. Fucking_ coward _._ “I don’t know.” 

Eddie looks away, towards the window and the bright red and orange leaves that have started to fall. Maine is beautiful in autumn, and Richie wants desperately to see it with Eddie again. He’s quiet for so long that Richie starts to worry he’s fucked up somehow. 

“You know, the whole time I’ve been awake, I’ve felt like something isn’t right,” Eddie tells him when he finally speaks. 

“You mean apart from the crater in your chest and the eight broken ribs?” Richie asks, grinning when Eddie glares at him. 

“Yes, dipshit,” Eddie snarls. “Could you shut up for one fucking second?” 

Richie holds up his hands and gestures for Eddie to continue. Eddie looks at his lap, toying with the blankets as he speaks. 

“It feels like I’ve been trying to remember something,” Eddie says. Richie’s chest tightens, hands curling into fists. “And you guys have already filled in all the gaps, so I can’t figure out what the fuck I’m supposed to remember, but it feels important. Every time I think I get close it’s like… like it just melts out of my brain again, you know? I’m going fucking insane, Rich.” 

“You’re not insane,” Richie says.

“How do you know?” Eddie asks, head whipping up to look at Richie. He looks scared shitless. “What if there _was_ some fucking brain damage while I was out? Comas can do that Rich, it could have fucked with my head.” 

“Eddie, you’re not crazy,” Richie says, getting out of his chair to step closer. Eddie tracks the movement, and seems to relax when Richie sits on the edge of his bed instead. “I’ve felt the same way lately. So has Bev, and Stan.”

“This isn’t the same,” Eddie argues, voice rising petulantly. “Stan doesn’t remember all that much from fighting It, whatever. It’s Derry, and it’s Pennywise, that’s a given. I feel like I’m— like I’m missing my entire life, somehow. Did I say anything else that night?”

He should tell him. He should tell him, _yes, I think I’ve lost years too. There’s an empty cavern in my chest, something missing that feels like it’s carved around your name._ He should tell him, _you love me, but I don’t know how. You love me, but you don’t remember. You love me, you love me, you love me._

“No,” Richie says. _Coward._

Eddie’s face falls, and Richie feels sick with the guilt. But he’s known it his whole life: he’s never been as brave as Eddie. 

**↣↢**

  
  


Eddie is released two weeks later with orders for continued physical therapy and a legitimate, honest to god prescription for an inhaler to use “as needed.” Eddie refuses to fill it, and throws it away the second he’s out. Richie surreptitiously retrieves it from the trash can, just in case. 

They go back to the Townhouse, where Richie has kept his room reservation despite barely setting foot in it in weeks. Ben and Bev kept a room as well, while Stan and Bill took turns sleeping on Mike’s pull out sofa or at the hospital once Eddie woke up. No one thought to reserve Eddie a room, and for the first time in its history the Townhouse is booked. Mike immediately throws Stan and Bill under the bus to offer Eddie a bed for the night. 

“Mikey, no offense, but sofa beds murder my back on a good day,” Eddie says, barely looking up from where he’s texting Myra in the backseat. “And Stan and Bill can’t just sleep on the floor. I’ll just sleep with Richie.” 

He carries on texting as though he didn’t just flip Richie’s entire world on its head, the matter all but settled. Stan and Bev glance at him but thankfully remain silent. 

Richie suggests a party. Eddie suggests he “eat my ass Richie, a fucking party would _kill_ me, asshole.” Richie counters with a very, very lowkey party where they sit around and drink quietly, pointing out that his doctor cleared him for minimal alcohol consumption. Eddie concedes as long as they agree to talk about anything but Eddie’s white blood cell count or oxygen levels or anything even remotely related to medicine. 

The bar is empty, of course, and still doesn’t seem to have a regular employee to man it. Ben makes everyone a drink, keeping Eddie’s on the weak side, and they toast to Eddie’s health and to dead clowns and to the Losers and everything in between. Two drinks in and Richie is already feeling it, his tolerance already remarkably lower after nearly twelve weeks of sobriety. He feels loose-limbed and stupid happy, surrounded by the people he loves the most, his fucking family, whole and happy and safe. 

They sprawl across the furniture in the room. Richie, Eddie, and Stan make up the couch while Bill and Mike sit backwards on the barstools. Ben and Bev smush together on the armchair, looking gooey-eyed and sappy. 

“Okay, okay, okay,” Bill says over the din of their voices talking over each other. “My f-fucking turn assholes.” 

“Alright then, fucking _go_ , this is dragging on longer than one of your fucking books,” Richie crows, and Eddie leans into him as he laughs. 

“Beep beep,” Bill says with a laugh. “Okay, I uh… once smoked pot with Gillian Flynn, I met my wife at an orgy, and… I have c-cat named Xylophone.” 

“Orgy!” Richie yells, and Eddie laughs so hard he falls sideways until his head is in Richie’s lap. “There is no fucking way you went to an orgy, you fucking square!” 

“I think it’s the cat,” Mike says, squinting sideways at Bill. “You said you were allergic to cats.” 

“Stan?” Richie asks, whirling around. “Come on, you’re with me, right Stan the Man? It’s the orgy.” 

“I think it’s the pot,” Stan says. He keeps his shrewd eyes on Bill as he sips his drink, but Bill gives nothing away. 

“Definitely the orgy,” Ben agrees. 

“Haystack, you were always my favorite.” 

“I’m with Stan. Pot,” Bev says, raising her glass to Stan, who raises his in return. 

“Eddie, my love, that just leaves you,” Richie says. 

He looks down and finds that Eddie is already looking at him. His cheeks are flushed from the alcohol, his hair is loose and messy, longer than he usually wears it from two months without a haircut, and the picture he makes hits him like a slap to the face. A nearly identical image flashes in his mind, and he knows without a doubt that he’s seen this before. Only this time it doesn’t fade away; it sticks with him, a memory that doesn’t belong to him, somehow. 

“Orgy,” Eddie says, almost too soft for the rest of them to hear. His eyes are locked with Richie’s, wide and questioning. 

_Do you remember, Eddie?_

“Everyone but Mike ch-chug,” Bill announces, breaking the spell. 

“What?” Eddie yelps, breaking eye contact to gape at Bill. “No _fucking_ way, you fucking liar!” 

“Details, _now!_ ” Richie adds as Bev squeals with laughter. 

Bill refuses to talk until they chug. Mike passes around the bottle, and everyone but Eddie refills their glasses. By the time Bill is done talking, they’ve lost interest in the game entirely. 

“Big Bill, I have a whole new level of respect for you,” Richie says, taking one last swig to finish his drink. 

“It’s k-kind of too bad it ended up being a cult, there were some cool p-p-people there.” 

“And I’m done,” Eddie says, struggling to pull himself upright. Richie helps him, careful not to press too hard on his tender scar, and then just leaves his hands on Eddie’s back. “I don’t even know how to talk to you anymore Bill, what the fuck.” 

“We’re gonna turn in too,” Bev says, yawning widely. 

“I’ll call us an Uber,” Mike tells Bill and Stan. 

“Derry has _Uber?_ ” Richie asks, helping tug Eddie to his feet. Eddie leans into his hands for a lingering moment before stepping away. 

“It’s like, one kid, but yeah he’s got the sticker and everything,” Mike answers. 

They say their goodnights, and Eddie is a warm presence at his back when they go upstairs. Eddie follows him into his room; Richie barely recognizes it, having only slept here a handful of times. 

“You can shower first, if you want,” Richie offers, gesturing to the bathroom. 

“I’m fine. I showered before I checked out.”

“Cool.” 

There’s an awkward silence in which they stare at each other from across the room, separated by the queen size bed. 

“I um… kept your bag,” Richie says at last. 

Eddie turns to where Richie is nodding to see his suitcase perched on the luggage rack. He stares at it for a long time. 

“I think Ben had all your clothes washed,” Richie says, scratching the back of his neck. “I thought you might, you know, want them to be fresh after a few months, so they wouldn’t smell like mothballs—”

“Richie,” Eddie says suddenly, too loud. He looks back at Richie and crosses the room until he’s right in front of him, close enough to touch. “I need to tell you something.” 

“Okay,” Richie says, reeling a little because all the air has been sucked out of the fucking room. 

“I need to tell you something, but… I think I’ve already told you.” 

Richie blinks. “What? Eds, what does that mean?” 

“Exactly what I said, asshole,” Eddie says impatiently, crossing his arms. “I said something else that first night, didn’t I?” 

“Fuck,” Richie breathes, completely on accident. 

“I fucking knew it,” Eddie says, stepping closer. “What was it?” 

“Eddie—”

“No, no,” Eddie interrupts. “Just tell me, Rich.” 

“Eds I really don’t think you want to do this,” Richie says, eyes clenched shut, surprising himself with how quiet his voice has gone. 

“Fuck off, don’t tell me what I want, Richie,” Eddie says fiercely, and when Richie opens his eyes again he’s stepped closer. Richie steps back, and his shoulder bumps into the wall. “I got stabbed by a giant fucking clown and almost died. I’m divorcing my wife. I’ve been through like, six surgeries, I’ll be in physical therapy for months, and I’ve— I’ve been going insane, because all I could fucking think about, through all of it, was you. So whatever it is, I can _handle_ it.” 

He’s pinned, effectively, by Eddie’s body, but it’s his eyes he can’t look away from. Doe eyes, soft even in anger, so dark except in the sunlight when they melt into a honey-golden brown. He thinks he’s seen these eyes everyday of his life, somehow. Sought them out amongst strangers, because how could he have lived a single day without them? 

“You’ve been thinking about me?” Richie asks faintly, stupidly.

“Yes,” Eddie says, no trace of embarrassment or hesitation. The only indication he’s at all affected by this conversation is the dust of color on his cheeks. 

“You love me,” Richie breathes.

Eddie startles and takes a step back. 

“Richie,” he says softly, trepidation steeped in his voice. 

It should trigger every alarm bell he has, but Richie’s never been one to stop and listen when his brain screams warnings at him. He lets his mouth run and apologizes later. 

“That’s what you said. You said, ‘I didn’t forget you. I love you.’” 

Eddie’s eyes do that thing that he thought only happened in anime, that widen-and-quiver thing that shouldn’t be humanly possible, but he swears Eddie manages it, because he hasn’t looked away for a second. 

“And, okay here’s the thing,” Richie continues. “The thing is— okay yeah, I’ve been in love with you my whole life, but I’m not expecting anything here, okay? You— you were fucking out of it, and I _know_ you love me, you know, but I didn’t think it was like _that_ , and I-I still don’t, so. We’re cool.” 

“We’re _cool_?” Eddie repeats incredulously, and it’s only as Eddie advances on him that what he just fucking said really sinks in. 

“Oh fuck,” Richie says, trying to back further into the wall. 

“You tell me you’ve been in love with me your whole life, and that I told you I loved you like the second I was conscious again, and you say ‘we’re cool’?” 

“I— it— what do you want me to say, Eddie?” Richie cries, gesticulating randomly. “I’m trying not to be overbearing here with my love, dude, or make like, assumptions!” 

“Richie?”

Richie screws his eyes shut.  
  
“Yeah, Eds,” he says through gritted teeth. 

“Make assumptions.” 

Richie’s done. He’s fucking _done._ His eyes fly open and he sucks in a breath, falls back against the wall, eyes locked with Eddie’s. 

“And don’t call me dude when you’re telling me you love me.” 

“I _didn’t_ tell you I loved you. _Dude,_ ” Richie throws back, and Eddie honest to god growls. 

“Jesus, if you don’t kiss me right now, I swear to god I’ll kill you.” 

Richie’s retort dies on his tongue, because Eddie just—

“Did you just say—” 

“Yes,” Eddie snaps. 

Richie’s mind goes completely blank, like his fragile brain can’t handle or process the words. 

“Richie,” Eddie says, gentler now. “I’ve always loved you. I can’t believe you never knew before, that you even doubted what I meant when I said it before. You’re even dumber than I thought, and I love you so fucking much.” 

His hands cup Richie’s face, and the contact sparks his brain back into action, the words racing through his blood and reverberating with every heartbeat. _I love you. I love you. I love you._

He can’t speak, wouldn’t know what to say even if he wanted to, so he kisses him instead. Eddie’s hands find his hair and Richie pulls him in by the waist, hands fisting in his t-shirt. Eddie wastes no time, tilting his head and maneuvering Richie’s until the angle is perfect, until Richie’s groaning into it and nearly melting into the wall when Eddie’s tongue finds his bottom lip, opening his mouth to him without hesitation. Eddie kisses like it’s his last, like he’s waited his whole life to kiss Richie, because he _has._

“God, Rich,” Eddie gasps when they pull apart to breathe, looking at Richie urgently. “Rich, I remember.”  
  
“Remember what?” Richie asks, ducking down to kiss him again, and again, unable to stop now that he’s started. 

“I don’t— I don’t know,” Eddie says, adorably frustrated and so remarkably _Eddie_ that it makes Richie laugh, kissing the crease between his eyebrows. “I lost it but it was… it felt important. Fuck, I love you, Richie.” 

“Don’t stop,” Richie says, feeling Eddie grin into the next kiss. “Don’t stop telling me.” 

“I love you,” Eddie murmurs, pulling Richie backwards by the collar to the bed, grinning again when Richie gently topples on top of him and seals their lips together. 

They go slow, careful of Eddie’s newly healed chest. Eddie tells him and tells him and tells him, gasping it when Richie pushes in, when he comes, and Richie feels like they’ve been here before. A hundred times, a thousand — pressed together, wrapped around each other, the only sound in the room their shared breath and Eddie’s name on his lips. 

“I feel like that’s happened before,” Richie tells him, after. 

Eddie is draped over him, pressed together shoulder to toe, head on Richie’s chest, leg thrown between Richie’s so that their ankles lock together. Richie is propped up on the pillows, hand carding through Eddie’s hair idly. Eddie looks up, crosses his arms over Richie’s chest, rests his chin on them and smiles Richie’s favorite smile, the one he thinks might be reserved just for him. 

“I can promise you that’s never happened before,” Eddie says. “Not to me, at least.” 

Richie mock gasps. “Was I your _first,_ Eddie Spaghetti?” 

Eddie’s rosy cheeks redden even more, and he swats at Richie’s chin. “Fuck off, obviously you were. In like… with a man, I mean.” 

“Tragic,” Richie says seriously. “That no other man will ever know the majesty that is Eddie Kaspbrak’s ass.” 

“God I hate you,” Eddie says. “Just because you said that I’m gonna go fuck the first guy I find.” 

“No, I take it back,” Richie says, tightening his hold on Eddie’s waist. “Though not the part about your ass being majestic.” 

“Unbelievable,” Eddie murmurs, face pressed back in Richie’s chest. 

They’re quiet for a while, long enough that Richie thinks Eddie’s fallen asleep. He lets his fingers trace over the newly formed scar tissue on Eddie’s back, trying to remember a time he felt this happy. 

“I feel like that too,” Eddie mumbles quietly, muffled. 

“Hmm?” 

“Like we’ve been here before.” He tilts his head to look Richie in the eye. “Like I’ve told you I love you before.” 

“Well you said it about a hundred times just in the last hour, so.” 

“Don’t be a dick,” Eddie says, pinching Richie’s nipple lightly, and he jerks. 

“God, baby, that’s not having the effect you want it to have,” Richie gasps, pushing his hand away. Eddie grins, and presses a kiss to the center of Richie’s chest. 

“Tell me again,” Richie says, pushing Eddie’s sweat-damp fringe off his forehead. 

“Dude,” Eddie says with a laugh, but his eyes are soft when he looks back up. 

“Please? I never thought I’d hear it, it’s become a very specific kink for me in the last hour.” 

Eddie laughs, and pushes himself up so that he can straddle Richie’s thighs. He settles in his lap and holds Richie’s face in his hands, looking at him with intent. 

“I love you,” Richie says before Eddie gets the chance. Eddie grins and shakes his head. 

“I love you, fucking dumbass,” Eddie says fondly, ducking down to kiss him. 

Later, when they’re tangled together under the sheets and drifting on the edge of sleep, Richie noses into Eddie’s hair and, without fully understanding why, whispers, “Don’t forget me.” 

Eddie’s hand twitches on his chest like it’s been shocked, but he’s still otherwise, tipped over the edge into sleep. 

“Don’t forget me, Eds.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that's a WRAP :) sort of. 
> 
> there will eventually be an epilogue, but it's giving me a lot of grief because spoiler alert: they don't forget permanently. so be on the lookout for that at some point soon 
> 
> i usually like to leave certain things sort of ambiguous for readers to interpret things however they want, but i also realize there was not a lot of opportunity for me to explain my made up deadlights lore in the prose. so if you would like any clarification on wtf i was going for please feel free to reach out on twitter or tumblr, happy to share my incoherent notes <3
> 
> thank you again to my amazing artist sarah for being such a wonderful person to work with on this and for making such beautiful pieces for this fic!! and thank you to gene and kat for holding my hand/letting me talk to them about this when we had to keep hush hush, and of course thank you to everyone that's read/commented/left kudos, i love y'all to bits <333
> 
> art for this update [here](https://www.deviantart.com/the-snuffbox/art/Together-845814523%20%E2%80%9Drel=)


	18. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for extreme sappiness

_"I never liked that ending either."_

_-Richard Siken_

* * *

**_November 2022_ **

“You think Mike would want a Playstation?” 

“You literally played Fortnite with Bill yesterday Richie, why the fuck would they need another Playstation?” 

Richie pouts, eyes flicking between Eddie and the sign above them. 

“I don’t know! Maybe he wants his own. Bill does hog it a lot." 

“We’re not going to Gamestop. I told you a year ago that was the last time I’d set foot in there with you.” 

“ _Eddie,_ ” Richie whines, tugging Eddie’s hand when he tries to walk away. He almost slips on the wet concrete, righting himself by grabbing hold of Richie’s coat sleeve. 

“Watch it asshole,” Eddie chastises. 

“But they have the new Pokemon,” Richie continues, lips pursed pleadingly. No forty-five year old man had any right to be this fucking cute. 

The wind whips through the buildings, the chill piercing and unforgivable, making him shiver, chilled down to the bone. It’s unseasonably cold for only the third week of November, even for New York, and the forecast is calling for snow in a few hours. Eddie shudders and pulls his coat tighter around his shoulders. 

“Richie. I love you, but we didn’t trudge out in this godforsaken weather for Pokemon. We’re getting gifts for our friends, like we talked about.” 

Richie sighs, wrapping an arm around Eddie’s shoulder with his head thrown back to scowl at the sky dramatically. 

“Fine. Will Santa-Eddie give me Pokemon for Christmas then?” Richie asks, leaning down to nuzzle his nose against Eddie’s scarred cheek. 

“I don’t know what world you live in where you think you’re not on the naughty list,” Eddie answers, leaning into Richie to avoid running into someone on the narrow sidewalk. Richie tightens his hold so he stays close against his side — he snakes his arm under Richie’s jacket around his waist, sighing at the warmth. 

“Oh, take me home and I’ll earn my place on the naughty list right now, baby,” Richie says, snickering when Eddie predictably pinches his hip. He smiles when Richie ducks down to press a kiss to his hair. 

“ _Focus,_ Richie. I don’t want a repeat of last year.”

In which Richie and Eddie, caught up in their own anniversary celebrations (November 20th, and Eddie’s never regretted letting Richie be such a sap about their wedding date until last year) forgot to get gifts for the Losers annual holiday celebration until it was far too late. Eddie had had to look Stan dead in the eye, mortified, as he unwrapped his already belated Hanukkah gift — a bar of “fancy” soap and hand towels that Richie had stolen from their hotel room.

“Come on, last year was hilarious.” 

“It was embarrassing. Bev got me a _Vitamix,_ and we got her an orange hoodie that said ‘Aries’ in giant pink lettering.” 

“She loves that hoodie!” 

“She only wears it because she knows it makes you laugh and embarrasses me. She’s not even an Aries! She’s an Aquarius!”  
  
“ _So_ close,” Richie says. 

“Never again, Richie. We’re blowing their tits off this year.” 

“Blowing their _tits off_?” Richie hoots loudly, tossing his head back to laugh. He looks back down at Eddie, looking around his shoulder and over his head, eyebrows furrowed. “Excuse me sir, have you seen my husband? It seems he’s been body swapped with some other brunette cutie who uses the phrase ‘blow their tits off’ unironically. I’m very worried.” 

“Get off of me,” Eddie snaps, shrugging Richie’s shoulder off and power walking ahead of him. He can hear him laughing even from ten paces ahead. 

Richie catches up a block down when Eddie pauses outside an antiques shop. Richie hooks a chin over his shoulder to peer in the window with him. 

“Something caught your eye, my love?” 

“Maybe,” Eddie says vaguely, staring. 

He maybe has an ulterior motive for dragging Richie out in the freezing cold today. It’s their unofficial anniversary trip — convenient, because Richie was doing a month long circuit tour in NYC, and Eddie found himself missing the city after all these years. He had moped around their house for a week when Richie told him how long he’d be gone until Richie suggested he just take a month and join him. He had more than enough vacation days in the bank, and could work from the New York office besides, and so here they were two weeks into their trip, missing the California warmth but enjoying all the uninterrupted time together. 

They’ve spent most of their days doing dumb tourist shit neither of them ever had a chance to do before, or holed up in their ridiculously opulent hotel room that Richie’s manager had swindled for them. Eddie goes to several of his shows, but starts sitting some out when he catches himself mouthing Richie’s punchlines to himself in the front row every night. Eddie spends those free evenings catching up with old work friends, even spends one awkward evening with Myra and her new husband before vowing to never be the bigger person again, or on FaceTime with Stan and Patty and their new baby. 

It’s been a great trip, but their anniversary is in three days and Eddie still doesn’t have a gift. 

He knows Richie already got him something. Not that he’s been obvious about it — Richie is surprisingly sneaky and tight lipped when it comes to presents, no matter how hard Eddie tries to wheedle it out of him. He’s also an annoyingly great gift giver, always managing to outdo Eddie every single time, and it’s infuriating. 

They try to stick to traditional gifts for anniversaries. He and Myra never did, and Richie never thought he’d get to have someone to give traditional gifts to, so when he’d shyly suggested it their first year, Eddie couldn’t say no. Paper was first — Richie had dug up an old yellowed note from high school, a goofy “do you like me, check yes no or maybe” letter he’d never actually given to Eddie, and had it framed. Eddie cried for twenty-five minutes when he opened it. 

This year is their fifth: wood. Richie has already made the obvious joke multiple times when Eddie tried to pry about his gift, but has been as annoyingly silent about it as usual. And Eddie has nothing. His plan this year is to lead Richie around until he finds something that catches his eye, then double back and buy it during his show tonight. 

He should’ve known Richie was too smart for him. 

“Think I’m gonna fall head over heels for that ugly clown motherfucker?” Richie says close to his ear. “Looks like it’s made of wood, at least.” 

“Jesus, no,” Eddie says. “The only reason I’d ever buy that is so we could burn it together.” 

“Baby you’re so romantic,” Richie sighs, wrapping his arms around Eddie’s waist and fully leaning into Eddie’s back. 

“It looks kinda familiar, right?” 

“Uh, yeah, the way all fucking clowns look familiar, I guess,” Richie says. Eddie feels him shiver and tug Eddie closer, one hand finding his scar, tracing over it the way he does so often in moments like this. 

“Yeah but this one is like… I swear I’ve seen this _exact_ one before.” 

“You did live here for like ten years, babe. I can guarantee it’s been sitting on that shelf since the day the poor owner was cursed with it.” 

“Yeah, maybe,” Eddie says, trailing off quietly. 

He looks at the other items on the shelf — an old pocket watch, some jewelry, a music box.

“That’s kinda cool,” Richie says, pointing. 

It’s a wooden turtle, seemingly hand carved based on the price tag, shiny and elegant looking. Eddie stares for a long minute, feeling the edges of his mind go hazy, vision suddenly tunneling — Richie must sense it, because he straightens a little to hold Eddie more securely.

“Eddie, honey? You okay? Fainting on me again?” 

“I’m not fucking fainting,” Eddie snaps weakly, but he doesn’t fight it when Richie shift his grip so that Eddie stays upright, head hanging down. He closes his eyes and focuses on his breathing, Richie mirroring him at his back. 

This happens a few times a year — he's never figured out the trigger. He’s been to his doctor more times than he can count, called his surgeon in Derry several times to see if the dizzy spells were related to his injuries, and each time has been assured he’s in perfect health for his age and surgical history. The only time he actually lost consciousness was during their honeymoon in Fiji — he'd taken one look at the beach the first day and would’ve collapsed right there in the sand if Richie hadn’t caught him. 

Richie’s learned not to panic by now, but the first few times it happened he’d been a wreck, rivaling Eddie’s mania in his interrogation of Eddie’s doctors. He himself has his own unexplained “quirk”, as he calls it — sometimes Eddie will find him, perfectly still in a way he never is, staring blankly into space until Eddie gently talks him back from wherever he goes during those moments. He never remembers, after. As neither of them have gotten any answers from the medical community or anywhere else, they’ve chalked the episodes up as a result of their supernatural trauma and learned to cope with it. 

“Just breathe babe, you know the drill,” Richie says quietly in his ear. 

Eddie does, trying to match his breaths with Richie, keeping his eyes closed and head hung low. Slowly, the whirlwind of static in his brain fades, and he feels like he’s on solid ground again. He opens his eyes, sees his feet flat on the ground, feels Richie warm and solid behind him. He straightens and squeezes Richie’s wrists. 

“It’s passed, I’m fine,” Eddie says. Richie turns him around and lays a hand on his cheek. 

“You haven’t had one in a while,” Richie murmurs, eyebrows drawn together. “Think it was the clown?” 

“I don’t know… maybe,” Eddie says, glancing back at the dark wooden turtle. He feels a pull towards it he can’t explain, and Richie follows his eyeline. 

“It's nice,” he says, nodding at the turtle. “Kinda looks like the one I see in those weird dreams I get.” 

“How would you know Rich? It’s a _turtle._ They all look the same.” 

“They have the same kind eyes,” Richie says dreamily. Eddie rolls his eyes. “Hey, that turtle gives me the nicest dreams, Eds. Don’t talk shit.”

“You mean like the one where you were riding on its back in the quarry when you decided you wanted to propose?” Eddie asks dryly. Richie grins. 

“The very same, my love.” 

“Still can’t believe I said yes after hearing that,” Eddie says with a shake of his head. He wraps his arm around Richie’s waist again to pull him away, throwing one last glance over his shoulder at the window. 

“It was so romantic though,” Richie insists. “I woke up and just knew it was time.” 

“Sweetheart, you proposed at four AM with your morning breath right in my fucking face. I was barely even awake — again, you’re lucky I said yes.” 

“That’s how I know you really love me,” Richie croons, plastering a wet kiss to his cheek, and Eddie laughs and pushes him off. 

They don’t find any Christmas gifts for the others but Eddie comes to a decision, not entirely of his own volition. And so, without fully understanding why, he sneaks back out while Richie is performing later that night and buys the turtle. The shopkeeper gives him a weird knowing look as she rings him up, like she recognizes him, and kindly asks if he’d like it gift wrapped when she sees his hands shake. He nods, tight lipped, and feels the package burn under his arm the entire way back to the hotel. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


It blizzards on their anniversary. 

Eddie wakes up first, woken by the wind whipping against the window, groaning when he sees the sea of white outside their hotel’s window. 

“No,” Richie mumbles against the back of his neck, wrapping his warm arms around Eddie’s waist. His wedding ring is cold against the skin of Eddie’s stomach, and Eddie reaches for his hand, rings clinking quietly when he threads their fingers together.

“Go back to sleep baby, ‘s snowing,” Eddie replies softly, settling comfortably in his husband’s arms. 

“Mmm,” Richie hums back, both asleep again within seconds. 

When they finally do get up, Richie crawls on top of him, pressing him into the mattress and kissing him deep and slow until Eddie is a writhing panting mess. 

“Happy anniversary,” Richie says, kissing his way down Eddie’s chest and stomach, making Eddie gasp it back when he slides home. 

They order room service, and for once Eddie doesn’t sweat over getting crumbs in the sheets. They sip coffee and watch the snow fall, Eddie cradled with his back to Richie’s front, blankets tucked around them like a warm cocoon. 

“Shows cancelled,” Richie says in his ear, pressing his lips to Eddie’s hair. Eddie hadn’t even noticed him pick up his phone, entranced by the storm outside. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. Supposed to be like this all day, don’t want to trap people in Radio City. That place is fucking haunted.” 

Eddie snorts. “Rich you’ve seen _actual_ monsters in real life, please tell me you’re not scared of the fucking phantom of Radio City.” 

“You haven’t been in that dressing room alone Eds,” Richie says, typing out a message with one hand, other still wrapped around Eddie’s stomach with a cooling cup of coffee in his hand. Probably accepting anniversary wishes from the rest of the Losers. 

“Hmm. So what should we do then?” Eddie says. “Feels kinda lame to spend our fifth anniversary holed up in a hotel room.” 

“That’s exactly what you were going to do anyway, sweetpea.” 

“Yeah but not by _choice._ ”

He feels Richie look up from his phone. “Seems like we still don’t really have a choice.” 

The wind howls, icy shards hitting the window in an almost soothing pattern. He’s never missed the snow in the six years since he moved to California, but seeing it again in this temporary fashion is kind of nice. No cars to dig out from the snow, no ice to slip on on the sidewalk — just the comfort of watching it fall from Richie’s arms. 

“Lets just watch movies and fuck all day,” Eddie says, carefully putting his and Richie’s mugs down and turning in his arms to straddle his thighs. “You’ve been so busy with your tour, this is perfect — we have nothing to distract us from each other.” 

“God you’re a sap, Tozier,” Richie says, smiling big the way he always does when he uses Eddie’s new last name, not so new anymore. Eddie combs through his messy bedhead, thumbing over the streaks of grey at his temples that he’s forbidden Richie from going anywhere near with hair dye. Richie’s hands find Eddie’s hips and he tugs him closer — Eddie shivers when his chilled fingers sneak under his t-shirt. 

“Takes one to know one,” Eddie replies, leaning in to kiss the stupid grin off his face. He feels himself smiling into it though, ruining the effect. 

“I believe you said something about fucking the day away, Mr. Tozier,” Richie murmurs against his lips, big hands finding Eddie’s ass. 

“I love you,” Eddie gasps, breath mingling with Richie’s when he breathes it back. 

* * *

Eddie doesn’t even think about his stupid gift until hours later, when they’re polishing off lavish room service deserts paired with celebratory champagne and Richie shifts nervously next to him on the bed. 

“So should we, uh… gifts?” Richie asks, trying to hide his obvious anxiety by keeping his hands busy cleaning up the plates from their dinner. 

His back is to Eddie as he gathers the dishes and silverware, stacking it neatly back on the cart and wheeling it outside of their door. His hands are shaking slightly when he comes back in, digging in their small closet and pulling out a medium sized rectangular gift box. 

“Are you nervous?” Eddie asks pointblank when Richie sits back on the bed with him, holding the gift out to Eddie like it’s a bomb. 

“A little,” Richie admits, taking Eddie by surprise. Richie almost always tries to hide his nerves, even with him, brushing it off with forced bravado and talking extra loudly. Usually Eddie can talk him down or holds his hand until he calms down, but he doesn't know how to approach this quietly anxious Richie, who shakes the gift pointedly. 

“Please take it Eds, before I throw up.” 

“Okay,” Eddie says, laughing at how he visibly relaxes when it’s out of his hands. “Sweetheart, please breathe. I promise you this is gonna be better than the shitty gift I got you. It always is.” 

“Just open it,” Richie says, hands clenching and unclenching in the comforter. 

“You weren’t even this nervous when you proposed, Jesus Rich what the hell is this,” Eddie comments as he starts to unwrap the shiny wrapping. 

“I was half asleep. If I’d done that when I was fully conscious there’s zero chance I wouldn’t have puked my guts out.” 

“You’re so gross,” Eddie says with a smile and peels off the tape, carefully unwrapping in a way that has Richie huffing impatiently. He finds a large wooden frame when all the wrapping is off; when he turns it over he forgets how to breathe. 

“Richie, I— is this—?”  
  
“Yep,” Richie confirms, watching Eddie’s face carefully. 

“Richie… holy shit.” 

It’s their carving — the one Richie did when he was thirteen that Eddie has since come to think of as theirs. He’s seen it before, years ago when they’d had to make a trip back up to Derry for a follow up with Eddie’s doctor, but it feels like the first time all over again. Eddie traces over the R + E, still rough and untouched, pieces of Richie’s heart etched into each cut. The edges are sanded down and smooth, fitted in a beautiful darker wooden frame. Eddie understands Richie’s nerves now, traces from when he first carved it thirty years ago. This was his first major act of defiance and love, practically bleeding from the heart on his sleeve as he etched them in perpetuity, and even after knowing Eddie loved him back he’d been sick with remnant anxiety when they returned to the Kissing Bridge together. 

“Fifth anniversary is wood,” Richie croaks self consciously, grinning crookedly when Eddie looks up. “And you didn’t seem satisfied with me just gifting you with my hard dic—”  
  
Eddie shuts him up by launching himself across the bed, kissing him hard. Richie cups his face, gentles the kiss, thumbs brushing Eddie’s wet cheeks when he pulls back. 

“Richie,” Eddie says, breathless and serious. 

“Yeah baby?” 

“Is this a recreation, or did you vandalize the Kissing Bridge for this?” 

Richie barks out a laugh. Eddie knows the answer, can tell from the unevenness of the wood, but he needs to hear Richie say it. 

“Nope, cut that sucker out of the fence myself,” Richie says proudly. “I’m pretty sure it wasn’t illegal.” 

“Pretty sure,” Eddie repeats with a grin. 

“Yeah I mean… turns out googling ‘is it illegal to saw off a piece of public fence’ doesn’t really yield anything useful.” 

“I love you so fucking much,” Eddie says with a laugh, kissing him again. “Did anyone _see_ you?” 

“It was Derry, dude,” Richie says, laughing. “But yeah, some teenager did. He literally stared at me for a good ten seconds and then just kept riding his bike, couldn’t have given less of a shit.” 

“When did you even do this?” Eddie asks, fingers tracing over the lettering over and over again. 

“When I had my Northeast shows,” Richie says. “Made a pitstop in Maine, then popped over to Chicago on the way home so Ben could help make the frame.” Richie hesitates, fingers playing at the hem of Eddie’s t-shirt. “Do you like it?” 

“Rich,” Eddie says softly. He puts down the frame and cups Richie’s face in his hands, kissing him slow, tears still slowly tracking down, taste of salt between them. “I _love_ it. I can’t believe you did this, this is… unbelievable. And like, objectively fucking _hilarious._ ”

“That’s what I aim for baby,” Richie says, cheeks smushed between Eddie’s hands as he smiles. “Soon our whole house is gonna be a shrine to my embarrassing adolescent crush on you.” 

Eddie kisses him again, and again and again until Richie pulls back. 

“My turn,” Richie sing songs, dragging out the vowels, making grabby hands at Eddie. 

“Oh god. No. Forget it, let's just pretend I forgot to get you something, that’s better than following _this,”_ Eddie says, gesturing to the frame between them. 

Richie squishes his cheeks together between his hands the way Eddie just had, kissing each of his dimples and then his nose. “Eddie baby I’m sure it’s great. Pleeease?”

“Ugh. Okay,” Eddie grumbles, pulling his face out of Richie’s grip and leaning over to retrieve Richie’s gift from the nightstand. 

Richie rips into it instantly like a kid on Christmas morning, tissue paper flying through the air with abandon, and Eddie can’t help but smile at the sight. He lifts the lid off the box and pulls out the turtle, immediately laughing. 

“You _didn’t_ , Eddie oh my god—”  
  
“Shut _up_ !” Eddie cries, head falling into his hands. “I told you it was stupid! Wood is a stupid fucking theme for an anniversary, what the fuck!”  
  
“Eddie oh my god I love it, stop,” Richie says, pulling Eddie’s hands away from his face. He turns the turtle over in his hands, grinning dopily in Eddie’s favorite way. “He’s so cute, we can put him on the coffee table.”  
  
“No, fuck no, we’re hiding him away where no one will ever ask about it, oh my god I’m so bad at this,” Eddie says, reaching to tug it out of Richie’s hands. Richie holds it out of reach, cuddling it to his chest. 

“Don’t you _dare_ do that to Richard Edward Franklin Tozier Junior,” Richie says. “He will be displayed _proudly._ ”

“You’re _not_ naming him, Jesus Christ—” 

“Hey.” 

Richie pauses, holding the turtle out and examining the shell more closely. 

“There’s writing on this. Did you get it inscribed?” 

Eddie scoots closer to look, and sure enough there are words etched in the wooden shell. 

“No, I didn’t — what does it say?” 

Richie squints at it (his prescription is getting old; Eddie makes a mental note to make him an ophthalmologist appointment when they get back home) tilting it this way and that to get the light to shine better on the worn, barely legible inscription. 

“It says: ‘A single mind… cannot weather the knowledge of all it’s lifetimes.’”

Eddie shudders inexplicably; he feels Richie do so as well. 

“That’s some deep shit for a wooden turtle," Richie says quietly, staring hard at the shell. 

“Let me see.”  
  
Richie hands it over, hands brushing, and Eddie runs his fingers over the words. His heart is pounding, throat tight when he finds a latch he hadn’t known was there at the edge of the shell. 

He pops it open, revealing a sizable chest full of yellowing paper. 

“What…” 

He pulls one of the papers out, unfolding it carefully, and drops it like it burned him. 

“Richie, what the fuck?” he gasps, meeting Richie’s bewildered gaze. 

“What’s wrong?” Richie asks, picking up the discarded letter. He opens it too, eyes bugging out of his skull when he skims the top. 

“Eds—” 

“How the fuck did you do this? Did you dig around and find this before tonight?” Eddie demands; Richie only shakes his head, looking at the letter in awe. 

“Baby, I— I haven’t seen this in over thirty years, I didn’t do this. I swear.” 

“Richie stop it, don’t fuck with me right now. I’m freaking out, what the fuck—”

“I’m _not._ I didn’t even know this was still around, I— Eds, I _swear._ ” 

Eddie takes it back, skims over the barely legible chicken scratch that was eight year old Richie’s handwriting. 

_eds,_

_miss barnes hairbun looks like a BUTT pass it on_

“Richie—” 

“Holy fuck,” Richie says, softer than a whisper. 

Eddie looks up to see Richie’s eyes glued to a different note, mouth hanging open. 

“Richie?” 

“Eds, I— I don’t know how, I— what the _fuck_ —”

Eddie gently tugs the new letter from his hands, heart in his throat. 

_Eddie,_

_I know you’ll never read this, but. This is so fucking stupid, but Stan told me it might help me “express my annoying pent up feelings” if I wrote this shit down. He told me I didn’t have to send it, that that wasn’t the point, that it would be “cathartic” or whatever._

_I’m sorry for ignoring you all week. It’s not your fault your mom is making you move. It’s not your fault I’m being such a shithead about it. But first Bev, then Bill, then Ben, now you. I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to do without you._

_I still shouldn’t have gotten pissed like that and run away. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry times infinity._

_I’m sorry I can’t tell you the real reason I’m so upset. I can’t ever tell you, but I can write it here, and maybe it’ll be enough for now._

_Or maybe Stan is full of shit. Fuck._

_I love you. I already miss you and you’re not even gone. This fucking blows._

_God, this is pointless. I’m burning this. fuck you Stan._

“Richie…” Eddie says; Richie’s head is in his hands when he looks up. “Hey, hey, sweetheart look at me.” 

“I burned that letter, Eddie,” Richie says into his hands, voice hoarse and muffled. “I fucking— I would have died if you’d read that back then and I _burned_ it, what the fuck is going on?”  
  
“Breathe for me sweetheart, come on,” Eddie says, prying Richie’s hands away from his face. There are tears tracking down his face, and his eyes are wide and scared. 

“What is this Eds?” Richie murmurs, going easily when Eddie tugs his head down into his lap. He strokes through Richie’s curls and tries to breathe slow and deep, hoping Richie will mirror him the way he always does.

“I don’t know, Rich,” Eddie says, leaning down to kiss his head. He thumbs through the remaining letters with his free hand, curiosity burning. “Should we read another?” 

Richie laughs, short and humorless. “I guess we fucking have to at this point, huh?” 

“Not if you’re having a fucking panic attack.”  
  
Richie sighs, twisting around to pull Eddie down into a kiss. 

“I’m… I’m okay. That was just. One of the worst weeks of my life, you know.”  
  
Eddie smiles, brushing a curl out of his eyes. “Worse than the clown?” 

“Okay, nothing’s worse than that,” Richie says with a shiver. “But yes, in terms of my ‘normal’ life, that week was the fucking _worst._ ” 

“Hey. It’s over, okay. I love you,” Eddie says, pulling another yellowed letter out. Richie stiffens but nods when Eddie looks to him to see if he’s okay. 

“Here we go.” 

  
  


_Eddie,_

_Sorry about what happened at the airport. Hope you’re okay._

_Richie_

  
  


“What… the fuck, when even was this?” Eddie asks, frowning down at Richie, who looks just as confused as he does. 

“I don’t know, but it’s… it sounds familiar? I don’t remember writing this, but... I do?” Richie says slowly. “My brain is like goop right now dude.”

“Let’s just… keep going?” Eddie says, and Richie nods. 

The next one he pulls out isn’t a letter, but an old papery napkin with the words ‘Likuliku Lagoon Resort’ across the top. 

  
  


_Eds,_

_Tell the missus I didn’t mean to spill her drink. I’ll buy her another tomorrow if she doesn’t have me kicked off the resort first._

_Meet for breakfast in the morning?_

_Richie_

  
  


Eddie’s head is fuzzy, full of cotton the way the painkillers he took after his surgery used to make him feel. Richie looks the way he feels, mouth gaping open, staring into space.

“Rich…” 

“I remember that,” Richie says, sounding far away. He sits up, shoulder pressing against Eddie’s, looking almost drunk as he recounts. “I remember… sneaking up on you guys on the beach, and Myra jumped so bad she dropped her pina colada, and you both yelled at me, but you were trying not to laugh. You had so many freckles, and… that wasn’t our honeymoon, Eddie, that was something else, I— what the fuck, why do I remember this?” 

Eddie wraps his arms around his waist. “I don’t know sweetheart, but… I think I do too.” 

Richie moves fast, kneeling in front of Eddie as he takes his hands. “You do? Holy shit… _how,_ we’ve never been… we didn’t go to that resort, and definitely not with Myra.”  
  
“Fiji,” Eddie says confidently, remembering the eerie familiarity he’d felt on their honeymoon, piecing together his fainting spell and the way Richie laughing in the sunlight had looked _so_ achingly familiar. Richie’s face goes slack, like it’s all just come together for him the way it has for Eddie. “It was Fiji.” 

“But we’ve only ever been there for our honeymoon, Eddie, I— I’m freaking the fuck out, is this— is it him?” 

He doesn’t have to ask who Richie means. “He’s dead,” Eddie says definitively, feeling Richie’s hands tighten in his. “Just breathe, Rich, okay, we’ll figure it out.” 

Richie grabs another letter without preamble, opens it with shaking fingers. 

  
  


_Eds,_

_You really ate that pavement today — sorry. Maybe skateboarding was a bad plan after all. Hope the doc gave you something good for the pain, wish I could’ve been there with you but your RA’s such a ballbuster._

_Call me tomorrow?_ _  
__  
__Rich_

  
  


“RA? That’s… Rich that would’ve been... college?” Eddie says, fingers feeling numb where he grips Richie’s wrist. 

“You broke your wrist,” Richie says slowly. “I remember… but it was your left arm. You wouldn’t let me come over for a week.” 

“Baby,” Eddie says, speaking slowly like he’s approaching a wounded animal. “We went to college two thousand miles away from each other, that’s not _possible_.” 

“Read another one,” is all Richie says, eyes glassy and unfocused. 

  
  


_Eds,_

_Thanks for bailing me out. Hope you don’t regret macking on me in a dirty club when you wake up tomorrow. Or you know. Leaving your wife._

_Anyway, I think it might have been the best night of my life, so. Thanks._

_Richie_

  
  


_Eddie,_

_I know you keep ducking my calls. I really need to talk to you — meet me at the gazebo? Please? Five minutes, and then I’ll fuck off forever. I promise._

_Richie_

  
  


_Eddie,_

_Never thought you could throw a punch like that, short stuff. Thanks for sticking up for me — though if you’re gonna assault someone, I can think of a few people more deserving than my shithead fans._

_Richie_

  
  


_Eds,_

_Fuck, I love you. You looked at me like that and I almost told you._

_Richie_

  
  


_Eds,_

_I don’t know how much longer I can do this. I don’t know what to do, I fucking. I don’t know._

_Please remember me. Please stay. Please._

_Richie  
  
_

_Eds,_

_You remember how Ben wrote Bev that poem? ‘January embers’, and all that shit._

_I’m not a poet. But I swear when the deadlights had me, I saw us in a future that looked a lot like this. You sleeping on my shoulder, TV on mute in the background because you can’t sleep without a little light in the room. (I have a hard time sleeping unless it’s pitch black, but I’ll make any sacrifice I need to for you. I owe you that much.)_

_I saw us, Eddie. I don’t know which reality is real anymore. I don’t even know what reality fucking is at all, to be honest. But I want to believe in that reality, wherever it exists. I’d go anywhere to have that. I’d go to Fiji in the dead of winter, the middle of the desert, to fucking Mars, Neptune, Saturn_ — _wherever I had to if it meant we could have that._

_I love you. I love you. I love you._

_One day I’ll be brave enough to say it. One day I won’t burn one of these the second I finish writing it._

_I hope you’ll be waiting for me. I know that’s too much to ask for, but you’ve always been braver than me._

_Richie_

On and on they go, letters of confession, of heartache and desperation, interspersed with nondescript notes and reminders, unremarkable “we’re out of milk” and “don’t forget about dinner with Bill tonight” type notes that Richie nor Eddie would have ever thought to save. They read them in near silence, the air thick between them, shared memories they’d long forgotten, memories that feel as though they belong to someone else. 

Richie picks up the final letter and drops it with a choked sound, leaving Eddie to read it alone.

_Dear Eds,_

_I have to start this letter off by saying I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. For everything you’re about to read, for lying to you, and for leaving like I probably did, because I’m selfish and this is getting harder and harder to explain to you in person. Not least because I never know how much time I’ll have to do it. About twenty rounds ago I had this brilliant idea to write it all down for you rather than talk until I’m blue in the face every time you remember. (I don’t have a genius level IQ for nothing baby. Stop rolling your eyes. The numbers are irrefutable Eds.)_

_What you read below is what doesn’t change, so for the sake of the environment and my own fucking sanity, I’m just gonna copy and paste this part of the letter. Here goes nothing…_

* * *

They’ve been silent for five full minutes. He’s watched the clock the whole time. 

“Richie?” Eddie finally asks, voice hushed. 

He remembers it all. He sees them all again — all the times they found each other, haloed by brilliant, blinding light. And Eddie can feel down to his marrow, to his blood, that it was real — that these realities exist somewhere. That he and Richie will always come back to one another. 

Richie is frozen, apparently experiencing his own epiphany, and Eddie remembers those too. He remembers walking away from Richie in the rain, running when he remembered who Richie was and what he meant to him, falling apart and coming back together again and again, remembers the devastation on Richie’s face when he remembered for the last time. 

“Richie,” Eddie tries again, but this time he climbs into his lap, tilts Richie’s dumbstruck face up to face him. Richie keeps his eyes on his lap. “Richie, look at me sweetheart.” 

“I remember,” Richie says hoarsely. 

He looks up at Eddie suddenly, expression somehow worse than that haunted devastation Eddie remembers from the last loop, and holds Eddie’s face in his hands. “Please, _god_ tell me you remember too, please tell me this isn’t another loop, have I— have I been trapped for this long?” 

Eddie’s heart sinks and splinters. “Shhh, Richie, calm down,” Eddie hushes him, pulling him close. He feels Richie shake in his arms. “I remember, okay, you’re not there, we’re okay— this is real, baby.” 

“How do you know?” 

“Because I know,” Eddie says. “I remember all of it. The deadlights are gone, Richie, remember?” 

“That doesn't mean we’re not still trapped,” Richie says, muffled in his neck. 

Eddie maneuvers him gently, holding his face carefully and wiping the tears from his cheeks. “Yes it does. Because I found you in all of them. I remembered you and I chose you, just like I chose you six years ago. And I did it again a year later when we got married, and every year since. I love you, Richie, and I loved you in every one of those loops.”  
  
“God, you’re a sap,” Richie chokes out around a smile. 

Eddie kisses the corner of his mouth. “You said it first. You called me your _soulmate_ , honey.” 

“Yeah and that was cheesy as shit too,” Richie admits. “I can’t believe you never—”  
  
“Hang on,” Eddie interrupts, noticing another letter that they missed next to Richie’s thigh. He picks it up, feels his blood run hot and cold simultaneously. 

Richie wraps an arm around his waist when he goes still. “Eds?” 

“I wrote this one,” Eddie says hollowly. “Fuck, I— I remember this.” 

“What?” 

Wordlessly, Eddie hands it over, watching Richie’s face carefully as he reads. 

  
  


_Richie,_

_I need you to know, right off the bat, how stupid I feel right now._

_I know you’ll never read this. I know you won’t, because I’m going to make sure you won’t. But it’s three am, and you’re snoring in our bed, and I just woke up from the most batshit dream of my life._

_You remember how you told me once that you dream about turtles a lot for no reason? I’ve never told you this, but I dream about the ocean._

_I’ve never understood it. I think as a kid maybe I was drowning in the dreams, but not anymore. Now, I just float, suspended, like I’m waiting for something._

_Tonight though, a turtle swam by me as I floated. I followed it to a cave, and it showed me some shit I can barely even explain. It showed me you, and us, together in all kinds of futures and pasts that I can’t even process. And some kind of understanding just came over me — I’d seen this before. Somehow, I have memories of these lifetimes that I shouldn’t, buried deep in my subconscious like my memories of you and the Losers were before we found each other again._

_It doesn’t feel malicious, the way what Pennywise did to us was. I don’t know why I’m remembering now, but I am, and I wanted to write it all down because I’m scared I’ll forget again._

_Richie, I love you. I tell you everyday but I don’t think you really get it sometimes. Sometimes you look at me and I can tell you’re still questioning everything, wondering how and why I love you, why I stay, like if you blink I’ll disappear. And I’ve never had a single doubt, but this dream is proof that I’m sticking around_ — _that in every universe that could possibly exist, I love you with every cell in my body, with ever fiber of my fucking soul. We belong to each other, and I’ll always find you._

_I can’t let you read this. I sound like a lovesick lunatic, because I am. But I’m going to keep this, because I can feel some of it fading again._

_I didn’t forget you, Richie._

_I love you. I’ll always love you, and I always have. I can’t wait to kiss you good morning._

_Eddie_

  
  


“When did you write this?” Richie says quietly, not looking at Eddie. 

“A week before you proposed,” Eddie says just as softly. Richie’s eyes trace over the words several more times, blinking back tears. When he finally looks at Eddie he only lasts a few seconds before he chokes and pulls Eddie close, crying softly in the crook of his shoulder. Eddie wraps his arms securely around his shoulders and holds him through it, stroking through his hair and over his back. 

“I’ve never been given a supernatural gift before, I don’t know the protocol here,” Richie finally says, gulping loudly for air, and Eddie laughs. 

“Me neither.” 

He pulls Richie’s snotty wet face up and kisses him, salty tears and all, brushing his cheeks dry. 

“I love you so much,” Eddie tells him, and Richie hiccups. 

“I love you, Eddie,” Richie says slowly, eyes tracing over his face before he kisses him again. “Who… I mean, how the fuck did this happen?” 

“I don’t know. Maybe... whatever killed the deadlights? Do you remember that?” 

Richie shudders and nods. “Uh yeah. Would have preferred to keep that one buried, I think.” 

“That’s the only thing I can think of that could have done this,” Eddie continues, Richie tucking his face against his chest again. “Unless this is still somehow a massive fucking prank.” 

“Eddie my love, you said you’d never let me read that last letter, and I definitely burned like several of the others. I might have a magic dick but that’s as far as my wizarding capabilities go.” 

“Dumbass,” Eddie says fondly, crawling around so that his back is to Richie’s chest. Richie tightens his arms around his chest and kisses his neck. Eddie shivers. 

“Do you think we’ll forget again?” Richie asks softly near his ear. 

“I don’t know,” Eddie says, picking up the wooden turtle again. “I bought this stupid turtle for a reason, I don’t— I don’t think whatever cosmic force is responsible would be that much of a dick to put us through this only to make us forget entirely.” 

“Hmm,” is all Richie says, trailing a line down Eddie’s throat with his lips. 

“Do you want to forget?” 

Richie pauses. Eddie feels him sigh and press his lips to Eddie’s shoulder, nose pressed to his collarbone. 

“I don’t think I do,” Richie says finally. “It… it hurts to remember some of it, but I got to know you in so many different realities, Eds. I don’t think I would trade that time with you for anything, not even blissful ignorance.” 

“Me neither,” Eddie agrees quietly. Richie kisses his neck, rests his cheek on Eddie’s shoulder. 

“But we— our heads will explode if we remember _all_ of this forever,” Eddie continues, already feeling the beginnings of a headache even as he says it. 

“Well. I have an idea then.” 

Richie gathers up all the letters spread across the bed and neatly tucks them back in the box, snapping the shell lid closed. He gets up to tuck it safely in his suitcase in the closet. When he returns he immediately pulls Eddie back to him, chin hooked over his shoulder. 

“We’ll only open it on anniversaries,” Richie explains just as Eddie opens his mouth to ask. “That way even if we lose it again, we’ll never completely forget.” 

Even as he speaks, Eddie can feel some of it fading already. His head feels fuzzy and warm, details disappearing, slipping through his fingers like sand. He reaches over to grab his phone and Richie snorts in his ear. 

“You’re setting a Google reminder, aren’t you?” 

“Well we might forget to open it!” Eddie huffs. “It’s practical, shut the fuck up.”

Richie laughs and presses a kiss to his cheek.  
  
“God, I love you. I’m so glad I married you.” 

Eddie finishes his reminder and wiggles around to face Richie, looking directly in his eyes as he says, “Me too. Every time.” 

They don’t say much after that, Richie’s response lost in Eddie’s mouth when he seals their lips together. And some nights Eddie lies awake, heart so full for the man sleeping next to him that he aches, mourning their lost time, helplessly furious that it was taken from them. But tonight he smiles into each kiss, lets the slow drag of Richie’s lips, sleepy and familiar, draw his thoughts away from regret for what they missed. Instead he thinks of everything they’ve had, laughing when Richie swears and struggles to pull his shirt over his head, because he’s seen it so many times before, both in this life and in countless others he can still see playing at the edges of his mind. He sighs, head falling back, thoughts becoming hazy and muddled the way they always do when Richie touches him like this, breathless with the knowledge that Richie has touched him a thousand times before. And he knows they can’t get that time back, but maybe they don’t need to. Because they can _remember_. They’ve made up for that time a thousand times over. They have belonged to each other since before they were even here at all. 

When he falls asleep that night, he dreams again of the ocean, and of a dimly lit comedy club. Of Richie’s brilliant eyes on his when the spotlight illuminates him, obfuscating every other face in the crowd. 

_“Yeah, you, purple button up. You’re adorable man, what’s your name?”_

_Eddie,_ he answers in his dream. _But you already knew that._

 _“Of course I knew that,”_ Richie says on stage, winking. _“Just play along with me, okay sweetheart? Let me have my fun, I promise you won’t regret it.”_

 _Always,_ Eddie answers. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay if you hate the epilogue just pretend i never posted it thanks <3
> 
> however i do need everyone to consider the hilarity of richie literally sawing out part of the kissing bridge as a romantic gesture because i can't stop thinking about it. 
> 
> anyway, i hope you didn't hate it and thank you so much for reading. i'm gonna miss this fic so much and will likely revisit it somehow again someday. as always, feel free to talk to me on twitter or tumblr <3

**Author's Note:**

> [twitter](https://twitter.com/edskaspbraking), [tumblr](https://hyruling.tumblr.com/)
> 
> please consider donating, signing, anything you can to help blm [here](https://blacklivesmatters.carrd.co/#). if you're unable to donate and/or protest, you can also [stream this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bCgLa25fDHM) to help.


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